


you can be the boss.

by witchlamb



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Consensual Nonconsent, Edgeplay, Finger Sucking, Intercrural Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Praise Kink, Size Difference, Spanking, cum inflation (very light), like just a ton of it, sue me i like a mess, way too much cum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2018-11-18 19:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchlamb/pseuds/witchlamb
Summary: Expanding on the Iron Bull romance, because the cut scenes fade to black way too soon.





	1. need.

**Author's Note:**

> so I really liked the initial romance scene, but the "oh I'm ready for it ;))))))))))))))" line and its delivery was so WILDLY out of character for my Inquisitor that I cringe-laughed, and I wanted to rewrite that bit. I wish there was a "nervous flirt" option. Otherwise I tried to keep the dialogue the same.
> 
> I tried to make Lavellan as vague as possible so you can imagine your own, but couldn't help sneaking a few specifics in there. Hopefully it's not distracting!
> 
> Kinks featured in this part: light bondage, size difference, spanking.  
> Future kinks will likely include consensual nonconsent/rape-play and daddy dom, as an FYI, so if that squicks you then ya might want to peace out now.

Lavellan walks into his quarters and drops everything he was carrying.

There, seated on his bed -- which is too large, and too soft, and too annoying in every way, he sleeps on the floor -- is several hundred pounds of qunari warrior, hunkered over with his elbows on his knees and his head ducked so he doesn't scrape his horns on the canopy. (Lavellan recalls, upon their initial meeting, idly commenting 'nice rack' and hearing his booming laughter for the first time.) He glances towards the door, wondering if maybe he's wandered into the wrong room by mistake -- Skyhold's large, that's possible, isn't it? But there's no mistaking the three flights of stairs and two doors you have to get through to get to the Inquisitor's private chambers. 

"So, listen," Bull says, turning towards him. "I've caught the hints. I get what you're saying. You want to ride the Bull." 

Lavellan stares, feeling a slow creeping warmth inching its way up his neck. He's dark enough that a blush is not immediately apparent. 

"Uh," he says, eloquently.

Bull hauls himself upright, the tip of his left horn catching on one of the curtains hanging from the bed's canopy and brushing it out of the way. "Can't say I blame you," he continues, approaching Lavellan casually, as if they're in the tavern having a friendly discussion about strategy or whether shemlen piss-water can accurately be called whiskey. "But I'm not sure you know what you're asking. Not sure if you're ready for it." 

His approach may be casual, but it takes so long for Lavellan's head to catch up with his eyes that it seems like he just teleported halfway across the room. He's there, all of a sudden, tall, impossibly broad, like staring down a mountain. Which, to be fair -- Lavellan has kicked down two mountains so far, but neither of them could talk or hit back or swing a sword, so there's that. And, to be even more fair, he's not staring down anything. He's looking up. Way, way up. This close, it's apparent that he comes up... roughly nipple-high on Bull. 

And speaking of, remember how Bull never wears a shirt? Remember that lengthy conversation he had with Sera, where they considered how qunari got dressed to begin with, and how he'd discussed it later with Krem, who had deadpanned that qunari don't believe in shirts and are agnostic on the subject of pants --

Bull is looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"I, uh," Lavellan begins. "Erm, that is." He gestures with his empty hands so violently he would have flung those papers out the balcony had he not dropped them immediately upon entering. "Which is -- to say, uh -- ah -- I, you... uh... you..." He blinks several times in quick succession. His brain keeps groping for words, any words, that when arranged in order will resemble some sort of sense. "Ready for... what?" 

Bull chuckles, shakes his head, and spreads his hands magnanimously in a 'no harm, no foul' gesture. "That's what I thought." He rolls his neck and shoulders, steps slightly out of Lavellan's way. "Don't worry about it, boss." 

He's turning, heading towards the stairs. Lavellan's mouth goes dry, and inwardly there's an even tinier elf screeching and pulling out his hair and stamping his feet, pointing emphatically towards the exit and demanding that he do! something!! about this, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out and he has to close it again, then repeat the process all over again. Bull is halfway there when he chokes out, "Wait. No. Stop."

Bull does stop, and turns halfway around to look at him -- he could go either way. Come closer, walk away. He raises the eyebrow above his remaining eye.

How many times had Lavellan fantasized about this exact scenario, or something like it? Not just Bull coming to him, but Bull _coming to him._ This is... certainly, this is not how he pictured it. In his head, there had been more... ravishing. In an immediate sense. He'd been pushed into a wall, or bent over a desk, or hauled into a lap, or clambered over in his tent at night, and then things had sort of amorphously gone on from there in a sort of vague question mark in his head. Like, Ah Yes, and then The Sex, of course, the Thing that I have Done Many Times and Know How To Do.

Obviously he knows how to have sex. Obviously. You put the one thing inside of the other. Duh. 

He opens his mouth again, this time to try to say something, anything, to sound confident and assured the way he does in his official capacity as Inquisitor, or seductive in the way he'd always hoped he would be when the time came, but what he blurts out instead is honesty.

"You're right," he says. "I don't know what I'm doing." There's a pause, heavy with opportunity. "But I -- but I want to."

He's looking directly at Bull's face rather than at his neck or massive shoulders or sculpted pecs the way he would normally be inclined to, so he sees the little play of features there, the faint quirk of his mouth, his eye glimmering with interest and approval. But though he turns back to him, he says, "See, you say that, but... you really don't know what that means."

Lavellan stares up at him, trying to catch up. He's typically quick on his feet, so it doesn't take him long to cycle through what he knows that is relevant here. It's never escaped his notice how many partners Bull has had, first at Haven and then in Skyhold. Mostly women, but a few men here or there, too, even that one surface dwarf from the Marches who claimed neither. He's heard the way they talk about it, other women gossiping about how so-and-so was walking funny the next day, and then... speculating... about the details. 

Bull is right again; he's not entirely sure what he's talking about.

"So why don't you show me?" he says, shocked to hear how calm his voice is. How bold.

Bull huffs out a chuckle, breath heavy like a bear's, and before Lavellan can react he's taken one step closer and grabbed both of his wrists in one of his massive hands, lifting them above Lavellan's hand and pinning them to the wall behind him. Lavellan's breath catches in his throat as an electric current jolts through his body as surely as if he'd magicked himself. Something totally foreign to him stirs between his leg, a single warm throb of desire like he's never felt before, and he is shocked by both the suddenness and the strength with which he immediately responds to this.

Bull leans in close, very close, his face mere inches from his. So close that when he speaks, Lavellan can feel his breath, hot and soft, against his face -- his breath clear, no trace of liquor on it. He's stone cold sober when he gazes down at him with that hungry look in his eye, so close Lavellan can see the beat of his pulse in one of the massive veins in his tree trunk neck. 

"Last chance," he murmurs, voice soft in contrast to the hard, heavy weight of the rest of him, the faint squeeze of his hand around Lavellan's wrist, a single hand all he needs to hold him steady in place. Without magic, Lavellan would never be able to fight him off.

If he wanted to fight him off.

He clears his throat and swallows so hard he can feel the lump go down. His heart hammers in his chest and his throat so hard he can practically feel it in his head. Every hair on his body is standing up in anticipation the way it does just before a storm, when there's lightning in the air that he could reach out and grab in his fist. But he can't reach and grab this storm -- it's got him by the wrists, pinned him to the wall like a butterfly in a glass case.

He wants to be pinned.

"Won't you... please stay," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Bull chuckles again, a low rumble, and for what feels like an eternity he does not move, just stands there staring down at him directly in the face, his one good eye boring into both of Lavellan's luminous eyes. Something tender and desirous passes over his face like a shadow, and then his left arm wraps around his back to literally sweep Lavellan off his feet. His right hand never releases his wrists, but manipulates them out of the way as he hauls him the few feet over to the bed, which he tosses him onto unceremoniously so that Lavellan lands on his back with a faint _whump_ , just hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs again. He opens his mouth but finds he has nothing to say, but before he can close it Bull has reached out and gripped him by the jaw, his thumb sliding between Lavellan's full lips and pressing into his mouth.

He jolts, this time a wave of fire crashing through his belly as he is instantly aroused, his head tipping up and his mouth opening instinctively as the rest of him goes limp. Bull looks over him with a slow, considering glance, and nods his head as he begins to stroke over Lavellan's tongue with that single digit. "That's what I thought, too," he says, the rest of his fingers lightly stroking his jaw like you might pet an affectionate cat. 

Lavellan moans once, quick -- "Ah," just like that. 

"Take off your shirt," Bull commands. "Let me see." 

His hands reach up like they have a mind of their own. He had thought he might hesitate, need time to consider every action carefully to weigh the pros and cons, but instead he responds to him immediately. His fingers work on the heavy clasps, and it feels like there are approximately twenty thousand of the damn things holding this straight-jacket onto him, but soon enough he's fumbled enough of them open that he can tug the rest apart and shrug out of the heavy casual shirt he wears that covers him from hip to halfway up his neck and all the way down his arms, sexlessly and prudishly.

Bull won't let go of him, but his eye travels down the length of Lavellan's body, taking note of his slim, compact figure. His eyes linger on every scar, no judgement on his face, just something closer to tender curiosity and approval at the signs of a body that's spent any amount of time on a battlefield, mage or no. His eye traces over the subtle lean muscle under his skin, the curve of his bicep, the faint outline of his abs in the center of his tiny waist. Lavellan is largely self-conscious about his youth, but he knows it shows in the taut firmness of the form underneath his clothes. 

"Nice," the Iron Bull says, the tone so typically, casually Bull that Lavellan would laugh if he weren't so... distracted.

His hands reach for the lacings of his trousers but Bull slaps his knuckles hard enough to sting. "Nah," he says. "Not yet." 

He releases his hold on Lavellan's jaw and reaches to his own waist, unbuckling the massive buckle holding his belt around his hips and sliding it out of the loops with the soft whirr of leather against fabric. Rather than discard it, he loops it in his hand and grasps Lavellan's wrists again, hauling them over his head and inside the loop of leather, the metal chiming softly as he slips the tongue through and tightens it all the way so that Lavellan's wrists knock together, arms tightening over his head. Bull shoves the post through the leather, locking it in place, and releases him, watches the slowly spreading shock and arousal over Lavellan's beautiful face. 

"Better," he comments. He trails his fingertips over the side of Lavellan's face, tender as any normal lover might, and then further still down his long, graceful neck and over the flat plane of his chest. He keeps his finger pressed, slightly too hard, right in the center, tracing a heavy line between his pecs and down the center of his ribcage to his belly, where his hand spreads out flat over his taut skin and presses experimentally with the palm. He slides that hand to the side and lets it be joined by his other hand, both now wrapping around his waist loosely but still touching each other, fingertip to fingertip. "Mm," he breathes, accompanied with a faint hissing intake of breath as Lavellan stiffens and gasps, wildly aroused at the feeling of his slight body enfolded in just Bull's heavy, rough hands, his thumbs pressed to his belly, fingers crooking into the small of his back to lift him and haul him down the bed towards himself. His hands inch down from waist to Lavellan's hips, resting loosely there, though he can still feel the warmth through the supple leather of his trousers.

"You're sure you want this?" Bull asks. "If you want me to stop, say so, and I'll stop. And we'll never talk about it again."

Is he _actually crazy_? Stop? Now? He shakes his head but Bull still does not move and it occurs to Lavellan that he is waiting specifically for a verbal answer. For him to express his consent in clear terms.

"I want this," he says, forcing every word to come out clearly and neatly, so there can be no misunderstanding him. His voice is husky with desire, and low. "I want you." 

Bull releases him and Lavellan lets out a choked whine -- why, why? He just said yes! -- but he is quickly rewarded for his obedience by Bull sitting on the edge of the bed and hauling him over his massive lap, Lavellan's thighs over one of his, his ribs over the other, and his belly in between, pressed so tightly that he can feel Bull's large and growing erection as it tents his pants. "Ah," he says, and then, louder, "ah!" as Bull grips Lavellan's sturdy leather trousers and, casually, as if they were made of paper, rips them open. Gripping the ruined remnants, he yanks them down over Lavellan's ass all the way to his knees, exposing his backside to the freezing mountain air of his quarters -- an icy shock. 

Lavellan's whole face goes hot, and he's sure that he's blushing from neck to the tips of his ears, though he can't see himself. Bull makes a pleased rumble, his hand sliding now over Lavellan's bare back and taking the time to trace every one of his scars individually and with great appreciation. Those little touches soon turn into petting strokes, like one might run their hand over a cat, starting from between Lavellan's shoulderblades to the small of his back and gradually growing longer, moving lower, until his hand rests over the curve of his ass and gropes there. Lavellan groans, lowering his head between his bound arms, his breath already coming out in hot heated pants as Bull lets that meaty hand explore, stroke, grip, squeeze, knead. He uses both hands to grip either one of the elf's cheeks and pry them apart, then release them so he can watch his ass clap, his cock twitching against Lavellan's belly. 

Bull pulls his hand back and cracks him once against the ass. _Smack._

Lavellan cries out, his whole body jerking forward, head up and eyes wide in shock, and Bull reels back and slaps him again on the other cheek hard enough for the sting to travel all the way up Lavellan's spine. Bull reaches back a third time and then a fourth, this time hitting the same spots until Lavellan is whimpering and squirming in his lap, inadvertantly grinding against his cock. Then he stops.

"Good?" Bull says, then adds, "Nod or shake your head."

Lavellan is glad for the specific instruction; he's not sure he could have adequately scraped a word together to answer that, not even a three-letter one. He nods emphatically, his lips parted, eyes half-hooded.

"If you want me to stop," Bull says again, "then say no, or say stop, and I'll stop."

Lavellan is not quite sure why he feels the need to keep saying what seems fairly obvious, but something about it -- the constant reassurance, the frequent reminder that he does not have to endure anything he does not want to -- is... comforting. He feels secure. Safe, despite the fact that his hands are tied and he's bent over his lap with his pants tangled around his knees in the most compromising position he's ever been in in his life, and that Bull could snap him in half with one hand. 

Bull reaches back and swats him across the ass once more, then continues, slowly, methodical, but growing stronger with every smack until Lavellan is whining, tears in his eyes blurring his vision so that he has to lower his head and squeeze his eyes shut, stiff sobs occasionally racking his chest as he struggles to deal with the pain of it. It's humiliating. It's wonderful. He does not understand why this is so wildly arousing to him, why he desperately wants the qunari to continue, to smack that ass until it burns and stings in the exposed air, flesh bright red and heated. 

But he does stop after a time, reaching down to rub and grope his abused flesh, fingers a light touch but even that gentleness is enough to sting. "Ah," Lavellan cries again, chest heaving as he sucks in air through his clenched teeth. 

"You're a good little boy, aren't you?" Bull murmurs, affectionate, gentle, a sharp contrast to how rough his hands are as they knead at Lavellan's flesh, cruelly slapping and pinching at him. "You just want to be a good boy." One of his hands slides between Lavellan's legs and cups his groin, fingers prying between his cheeks and stroking the sensitive flesh there, but leaving his achingly hard cock as an afterthought. "I had you pegged the moment I saw you. Nobody's ever treated you right, huh?" His thumb grinds into the cleft of Lavellan's ass until he presses it against his hole, and Lavellan shudders with his whole body. "Never given you what you need. What you crave." 

Lavellan groans, teeth sinking into his lip until it hurts. "What... what is that?" he manages to pant, and Bull reaches out with his other hand to grasp him by the jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, wrenching his head to look him in the eye.

"You want to submit. You need to submit."

Lavellan's cock throbs, and he can feel a growing wet patch on Bull's trousers below him. He can't tell if that's his own precum or his. Bull is staring him straight in the eye and holding his head in place so Lavellan cannot move his head away to escape his gaze, though Lavellan's eyes dart wildly around, afraid of the intensity he sees there, but there is nowhere for him to run and he is forced to confront Bull head-on, to face this honestly and directly.

"Yes," he breathes.

Bull spanks him again, but it's much softer this time, though even such a light touch has Lavellan's whole body wrench and then writhe. The qunari reaches up to grasp his belted wrists, the other holding his thigh, and uses that grip to lift him off his lap and toss him back onto the bed slightly more gently than before, so that Lavellan lands on his stomach before him, his knees slightly spread. He tries to turn, but Bull grasps him by the neck and shoves him facefirst into the bed, leaning over him as his hands explore his backside, from the nape of his neck down to the cleft of his ass. 

"Has anyone ever penetrated you before?" he asks. "Be honest."

"No," Lavellan says in a small voice, face burning. He's never spoken of such things so openly, in such explicit terms.

"What about you? You ever been inside of anyone before?"

"No." 

"Ever sucked anyone's cock? Been sucked?"

"No."

Bull sighs, not disappointed or resigned exactly, but as if he's confronting some sort of problem. But when he leans forward his lips are so close to one of Lavellan's long ears that he can feel his breath in it. "I don't normally fuck virgins," he murmurs. "Don't wanna break anything. But I'll make an exception for you, boss." Lavellan can hear the rustle of fabric, and though he can't see it, their bodies are close enough together that he can feel the heat of it when Bull frees his cock from the confines of his trousers and lets it settle, heavy and throbbing, against Lavellan's backside, nestled between his burning cheeks.

He can't see it, but is shocked by just what he can feel. The length of it, the thickness. It feels like it comes at least to the small of his back, feels at least as thick as his own forearm. He has to be exaggerating that in his head, there's no way it's actually that big, because if it is there is no way, absolutely no way, that that is going to fit inside of him, ever. Bull uses his free hand to push down on his cock so that it splays between Lavellan's ass, gripped there, and lets out a soft, low grunt of appreciation for the tight heat wrapped around his shaft. Lavellan whines. 

Bull rocks his hips slowly, tantalizingly, and Lavellan goes limp under him, moaning wantonly. He's not even inside of him yet and Lavellan's cock is throbbing, threatening to blow. He rocks his own hips desperately, humping the bed under him and grinding against Bull's cock, all thought cleared from his mind as he focuses in only on how fucking amazing that feels -- the heft of him buried in there, hot, a thick splay of precum dribbling from the head to smear over Lavellan's bare back. "Ah," he pants, then "ahh --" and then, louder, "anh!" as Bull cracks his hips up once so that he slaps into Lavellan's stinging ass, the elf jerking and writhing under him. 

"You've got such a tight little body," the qunari grunts. "Can't believe no one's taken you before. Lotta dumbasses in this world. Don't know what they're missing. You know, if it weren't for that mark on your hand, I wouldn't have made an offer. I'd've just bent you over and ripped your clothes off and fucked you like you deserved to be fucked." He pulls back, leaving Lavellan bare and wanting, panting, little mewls caught in his throat as he tries to thrust back for his cock, wanting that heavy heat again. 

"No, please, don't," he pants, and Bull pauses until Lavellan continues, "please don't go -- don't stop, please -- please, I want it --"

"And you beg so pretty, too," Bull says with a gratified chuckle. "Don't worry, boss, I'm not goin' anywhere." Lavellan can feel his hands on either side of his thighs, pushing them together so that his knees clack together and then pushing _that_ forward, forcing his ass in the air, bent over. 

"Keep your knees together," he says. "Press them tight." So Lavellan does, so hard his knees ache a little bit. Bull settles in on his knees behind him, and for a moment he just rubs his hands over the curve of Lavellan's ass and thighs, making no move to do anything else no matter how Lavellan grinds back and whimpers with need. He wants so badly, _achingly_ badly, for Bull to plunge his entire cock inside of him, to fuck him into the mattress until he's bruised and raw, to grasp his hair between his thick fingers and pull hard, to use him roughly while he screams. Later he'll have time to feel bad for such thoughts, but right now all he feels is a fierce, gnawing desire, for him, specifically to be claimed by him, fucked by him, ruined by him. 

Bull spits, hot saliva splattering over Lavellan's hole, making him jerk. He can feel that wetness dribble between his legs, over his balls until it trails over his thighs, joined by a second and a third before Bull reaches over his back and swipes his fingers over the still-damp precum he's smeared over him. He gathers it up and reaches between Lavellan's legs, rubbing that slick cum into his tightly pressed thighs.

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight," Bull says, his voice low, holding him through the jerk of disappointment that runs through him. "You're not ready for it. But I'm not going to leave you like this, boss. Don't worry. Let the Iron Bull take care of you." 

His hand gropes under him, thick hand wrapping around his shaft. His hand is so big he nearly envelops the whole thing in just his palm, and Lavellan groans so loudly he's afraid they'll hear it down in the throne room. Bull strokes so gently, thumb rubbing over the length of him, teasing at his head until he coaxes a little bit of precum from it. He adds that to the slickness between Lavellan's thighs, fingers groping and grinding into his tender flesh.

He strokes his cock a few more times, his grip feather-light to keep him from coming too soon, though even that's too much. "Ah, you're ready to pop off. Do you want to come right now?"

"No," Lavellan says, strangled. No, that's not what he wants. 

Bull releases him, slides his hand affectionately over the length of his body. "All right, boss." The bed creaks and groans under his weight, and he has to duck his head to avoid catching his horns on the canopy -- Lavellan idly notes that he's going to have to get rid of that -- as he settles in behind him on his knees, hands on either side of Lavellan's hips and squeezing tightly. "If you want me to stop, tell me to stop." He reaches back and gives another couple of smacks across his ass, and Lavellan cries out, his whole body tensing up just as the Iron Bull takes his hefty cock in his hand and slides it between Lavellan's thighs. 

He is not inside of him, but Lavellan can feel his girth just as clearly as if he were. He gasps, then groans long and low, his knees pressed together as tightly as they can. Bull's breath has caught and he can feel him struggling to even it out behind him -- which is gratifying, to know that this effect is not entirely one-sided. Once he's settled in there, Bull's hands go back to Lavellan's hips and hold on tightly, and with a slow, fluid movement he grinds forward.

The moan that escapes Lavellan's mouth is the filthiest noise he has ever made in his life.

"Fuck," he hisses. Though it's not quite exactly what he wanted, it's close _enough._ Bull's cock is hard as steel, burning between Lavellan's legs and throbbing, engorged, as the qunari begins fucking him slowly and steadily.

At first, anyway.

At first he's languid and easy, grinding up into him, their bodies pressed so tightly together that every thrust has his cock grinding against Lavellan's. The elf mewls, his back arched with his ass high in the air, wanting desperately to spread his legs wide but knowing he has to keep them tightly pressed together. "Fuck," he gasps again. "Ah, fuck -- Bull, fuck me --" 

Bull bends over fluidly, his thick chest pressed into Lavellan's trembling back, and hisses into his ear, "Shhh." His hand slides over Lavellan's cock under him over his chest and neck until he captures him by the jaw and shoves two of his fingers into Lavellan's open mouth, the elf instinctively wrapping his lips around them and eagerly suckling, moaning, whining. Bull's hips speed up until he's properly fucking Lavellan's thighs, his heavy balls swinging and smacking into the backs of his legs with an obscene clapping sound in counterpoint to the lewd wet suckling noise of Lavellan's mouth around his fingers. He can feel Bull's fingers bearing down into his mouth, stroking his tongue, pinching the muscle between them, exploring the wet hot cavern of his mouth, spreading his lips and cheek open so that a little bit of drool escapes Lavellan's mouth and dribbles down his chin.

"That's it," he sighs, hips clapping into Lavellan's ass as he fucks into him. "That's a good boy. Take it. You take that cock. Show me you can take it. Prove it." Lavellan groans, shudders, and struggles to free his hands from the belt binding them together, but the belt is just too tight. Bull's hips are gradually slowing, forcing Lavellan to whine and rock back against him instead, forcing him to ride him as best he can though his rhythm is so much less smooth, more erratic and wild. "Show me what you want, boss." 

Gods, all the gods above, he wants this desperately, has never, he thinks, wanted anything more. All he can think about is what it is going to feel like when Bull is actually inside of him, stretching him wide open, fucking into his tight little hole, ruining it, rearranging Lavellan's insides to suit his cock -- 

Lavellan's cock throbs and twitches. He desperately thrusts back, fucking himself on Bull's hard length, groaning at the way the head grinds from Lavellan's groin all the way up his belly, while he imagines the full length of that inside of him, spearing him, taking him --

His eyes roll back up in his head and he grunts, groans, gurgles, then screams wetly around Bull's fingers as he comes so hard his whole body jerks forward, toes curling and thighs squeezing in a vice grip around Bull's cock. His cum spurts over the bed below them, some of it shooting up over Lavellan's chest, some of it dribbling down Bull's cock underneath him, slicking it further as he doesn't see so much as _feel_ the qunari behind him grinning crazily as he rocks back and then _slams_ into him so hard Lavellan jerks forward and lays flat on the mattress. Bull reels back and slams forward again and begins to pound him in earnest, his grunts rising in volume as his hips slap into Lavellan's ass over and over and over, stinging, pressing, and then he's bellowing, and with a mighty roar his hand slams out to grip Lavellan by the neck and hold him dead still as he comes with such force that the thick hot spunk splatters all over the bed below them and coats Lavellan's entire stomach and chest. 

It's an eternity before he finally slows to a trickle, still hard and throbbing between Lavellan's thighs, fingers still crammed into the elf's open mouth while the other hand pins him down by the neck. Then slowly, finger by finger, his grip loosens. His hand extracts from Lavellan's mouth. Lavellan gasps a breath he had not been aware he'd been lacking as Bull climbs off of him, kneeling next to him, breathing heavy and hard as he reaches over and carefully, very carefully, turns him over.

Lavellan is limp as a pile of rags. His bound hands lay over his head loosely, his eyes glassy and heavy, face flushed and hot. Bull's cum has smeared all over his chest and stomach, over his thighs, coating his cock, sticky and musky and thick enough to feel smothering. He twitches. He's vaguely aware his feet are horribly cramping, feels like he wrenched something when his toes curled. His mouth is parted, breath hotly gusting through his open lips, as Bull reaches down and spreads his legs open, gazing over him with an expression of frank admiration. Clearly inspecting his handiwork.

Tenderly he reaches over Lavellan's head, undoing the belt tying his hands easily, and lets it slip away from him. He grips the leather between two fingers and jerks it so that he tosses it casually over the edge of the bed and lets it settle on the stone floor with a clatter. His hand rests on Lavellan's neck, then, watching him as the elf does not move, his blurred vision gradually making out shapes above him and then meandering over towards the qunari leaning over him, watching his face intently.

"You did great, boss," Bull says, his voice low and affectionate as he rests a hand on his waist now and gently rubs up and down. "You did a real good job. You're a good boy. Very good."

Something about the praises causes a hot flush of pleasure to spread through him, starting around his stomach. "Good boy?" he repeats hazily, and Bull chuckles and bends over to press a strangely gentle kiss to his forehead.

"Good boy," he repeats. "That's a good boy." He pats his side, eye sweeping over his form again. "You all right, boss? Nod or shake your head." Lavellan groans, and Bull prods him. "Check in with me." 

Lavellan nods; it's the most he can do. He can't stop looking at him, struck by how handsome Bull is -- unconventionally so, maybe, but handsome all the same, his features strong, loud, broad, so much of him to look at. His build so powerful, strength carried in every inch of him, from the broad swathe of his shoulders to the sheer mass of his hands to the tapered point of his horns, his flesh scarred and imperfect, a testament to all the times others had tried to kill him and failed. No wonder half the women in Skyhold are enamoured with him. 

Bull lowers his head so carefully to press his nose gently to Lavellan's. "Next time," he murmurs. "We'll try something else."

"Next time?" Lavellan says, dazed and foggy, the concept of time completely lost on him.

Bull pulls back and cups his cheek with one of his broad hands. "Next time," he repeats, a barely contained hunger still stirring somewhere inside of him, thrumming and feral. His fingers slide gently over Lavellan's long ears and gently caress the sensitive skin there, watching as the elf sighs and shivers for him. "Nod for yes," he says.

Lavellan nods.


	2. consent and boundaries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull knows what Lavellan needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this time i combined two scenes where you talk about your relationship with the iron bull and discuss things like consent and stuff. i thought the conversations were more natural if they happened at the same time. a lot of people think bull is rapey but if you actually romance him he's pretty explicit about getting your character's consent, i just wanted to expand a little more on that. and also you know, the boning.

Lavellan has several sleepless nights by himself. He's swamped unexpectedly and the Chargers leave to do some work out in the Hinterlands, Bull in tow -- though Bull trusts Krem, he likes to be with them when he can, and Lavellan has no good reason to keep him in Skyhold. They're not gone long, but long enough that Lavellan has a little too much time to stew and think. Think, specifically, about the jolt that ran through him when Bull grabbed him by the wrists and slammed him into a wall, or swept him off his feet and tossed him around as easily as a sack of grain, or hauled him over his lap, and...

No one had noticed, thankfully, how he sat a little gingerly the day after. He could have healed himself easily and no one would have known, but a part of him that he's ashamed to confront got a little thrill out of the sting and heated discomfort whenever he sat down. It fades disappointingly quickly, until even when he touches himself at night and runs a hand over his bottom he doesn't really feel anything different down there. 

And, oh, does he touch himself at night. He tries to steer his thoughts away, to focus on more conventional things, but his mind drifts away on its own and... then he's thinking about the creak of his wrists pressing into each other, the warm smooth pressure of the belt holding them tightly together, the Iron Bull's hand caressing his ass before reeling back and slapping it so hard he saw stars. He's thinking about _how much_ the qunari came, how it had felt to have the sticky heat of it smeared all over him. He's imagining what else might happen, how Bull had looked at him and promised, 'Next time.' 

Next time.

The Chargers finally return, victorious, and he agonizes over how to approach him. It ought to be casual, he thinks, so he waits, goes about his day, though he greets him in the courtyard as he always does: enduring a hearty clap on the back that nearly knocks him off his feet while Bull grins and says hey, boss, good to see ya, like usual, like they're only colleagues, when what Lavellan wants is for him to throw him over his shoulder and take him somewhere for some unspecific ravishing. It's maddening.

Later, after he's released from his duties and there are no pressing needs that require his immediate attention, he heads to the Herald's Rest (all the gods above he hates that name.) He stops at the bar for a drink first, ducking his head in agony when he's greeted, as usual, with a roar of drunken cheers and chorus of 'Inquisitor!' and 'Your Worship!' So much for a low-key entrance. He's stopped many times to chat, for he's taken Bull's advice -- gotten to know his men as best he can. Normally he's quite happy to hang around, shooting the shit, feeling welcome and accepted as a symbol if not a person... but he really needs to talk to Bull, and has to pull some straight roguery to extract himself from all these damn distractions.

He does finally make it over, but it's a long time later. Bull is still there. He wonders if he was waiting for him, or if he hadn't noticed him at all. He worries it's the latter, which is ridiculous. Not much of an ex-Ben-Hassrath if he couldn't hear all that over the din.

"Evening," he says, taking a seat at Bull's empty table -- the rest of the Chargers must be elsewhere. 

Bull nods, his hand hovering over the rim of a tankard as big as Lavellan's head. (Does Cabot stock those in qunari size, or raging alcoholic size?) "Hey, boss." His fingers wrap around the rim as he raises it to his mouth. "Popular tonight, huh?"

"Yes." Lavellan cringes theatrically. "For a tavern called the Herald's Rest, I never get any rest in it."

Bull leans back and laughs, and even a soft laugh from him is bassy enough to rattle the table. Lavellan cannot help his smile; he likes making him laugh, seeing the flash of teeth when he grins. "Yeeeeah," he says. "Don't think you'll be finding any of that around these parts. Hey, at least it's not boring."

"Yes, boredom is the last thing in the world I've got to fear. If it's not mad apostates, or mutant templars, then it's dragons -- or bears..."

"Mm. Remember that one in the Graves?" Bull chuckles fondly. He likes to reminisce. "Big motherfucker. Twice as big as I've ever seen 'em. Thought for sure she was gonna claw your entire face off and leave it in a heap on the ground."

Lavellan blanches. "Thanks for reminding me. I thought Cullen was never going to stop yelling at me. 'What were you thinking, charging into the vanguard,' I don't know, Cullen, usually I'm not thinking, so --"

"Hey, there's a time for thought and a time for action. I don't care if you wanna join the melee, for the record, but you're always leaving your flank open. Gotta remember you're squishy and made of meat. There's some free advice." He takes a long drink and tips his head, horns first. "You're welcome. Mm. Dragons, though --"

Lavellan props his chin in his hand and cannot stop the fond, amused grin from spreading his face. "No," he says. "I'm putting a moratorium on dragon talk. Once you get started, you won't stop." 

Bull raises a hand in mock-surrender and grunts a laugh of his own. "Fair enough. What _did_ you wanna talk about? Saw you skulking around the bar looking nervous, kept wondering when you were gonna hustle this way."

Well, there's his opening. Lavellan considers for a moment just... backing out. Saying he's mistaken, that he'd just come for a drink and some company, and then ignoring any of this had ever happened and go on being chaste and miserable until Corypheus finally kills him, or the Anchor does, whichever comes first. Be brave, he reminds himself. He told himself he would be brave. Be honest. He takes a deep breath. "Actually, I'd like to talk in private."

Bull leans back in his chair, considering him with one knowing eye that then sweeps over the rest of the tavern. He nods. "All right." Pushing his chair back, he rises, jerking his head towards the exit. Lavellan stands and follows him out of the way.

Skyhold is still largely in a state of disrepair, despite the restoration efforts that began the moment the Inquisition moved in. They've made great progress, but theirs is an organization largely comprised of soldiers, not masons, and some things take priority. A lot of rooms have been left in shambles, untouched from the last time they were actually used, gods knew how many years ago. There are a lot of back ways to get where you want to go, largely involving cutting through rooms with big holes in the ceiling or walls. Lavellan knows a secret way to get to the stairwell that leads to his quarters in this manner, mercifully saving the two of them from having to waltz through the main hall and be witnessed. The gossip alone...

He's quick on his feet, and he's used to going back-to-back with Bull in battle, where he's surprisingly fast with that greataxe of his. Lavellan is surprised to see how slowly he lumbers up the stairs -- he forgets, in battle, how _heavy_ Bull is. He's not just tall, he's broad with the thickly packed muscle one earns from a lifetime of labour. Not the flashy, cut muscle of a nobleman with the time to waste lifting weights to enhance his physique -- Bull has soft edges, a round belly, a layer of fat over his dense, utilitarian muscle. Lavellan finds it wildly attractive, honestly. Being held by him had been... amazing falls short as a descriptor. 

So he's staring somewhere in the vicinity of Bull's chest ('pillowy man-bosoms,' Krem insists, regularly, at length) when he turns to face him. It doesn't escape Bull's notice, and when Lavellan glances at his face, startled, he sees a look of knowing amusement there. His face goes hot.

"What's going on, boss?" Bull asks.

Lavellan is half-tempted to jump off the balcony to avoid this conversation, but he's made a promise to himself to be brave and direct. To speak what he wants, and not what he thinks everyone else wants. "We need to talk about what happened between us." 

"Oh, that. Sure." Bull nods nonchalantly. "What's on your mind?"

Now how does he go about explaining the confusing jumble of emotion he's been trying to sort out for days? Yes -- he'd liked it. It scares him a little how much he had enjoyed being bound and fucked, commanded, how easy and comforting it had been to him to obey. How feeling endangered had, in some bizarre way, made him feel safe. 

Maybe it was how many times Bull told him he would stop, if he wanted it to stop. Maybe it was just knowing that someone else could contain him.

"Nobody has ever done that to me before," he admits. His face definitely feels hot. "I... enjoyed it." 

Is it hot in here? Gods be good but he ought to have worn lighter clothes. Actually, he ought to have just dropped in through a rift in Bull's ceiling naked with a bow tied around his waist. ... likely he would not have appreciated the rift part.

Bull inclines his head. "Of course you did. Ben-Hassrath training, remember? Grew up learning to manipulate people. When it's a hostile target, you give them what they want." He turns, begins to move. Lavellan is always mesmerized watching him, the fluidity of his movements falling short of grace, but confident, smooth, a man who knows exactly what his body is capable of at any given time and his place among everything around him. When he sits on the edge of Lavellan's desk -- the one that hardly sees any use -- he's so tall that they're nearly at eye level. He's so heavy that the wood creaks and groans in protest. "But when it's someone you care about, you give them what they _need._ "

Lavellan is at a bit of a loss, and it's frustrating. So often in this role he finds himself in the position of having to discuss things that are so far outside of his area of experience he half-wonders if Fen'harel is playing some kind of prank on him. Maybe the Forgotten Ones are hanging around in the Abyss, laughing and drinking along. Or maybe it's the Creators. Could go either way. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and rubs the back of his neck. "I, uh... what exactly do you mean, need?" 

Bull leans back, casual, though he gives him a considering look. "You're the Inquisitor. You didn't ask for the job, but you've taken on the responsibility. You've got thousands of lives riding on your decisions. You bear that weight all. Day. You need a place where you can be safe, knowing someone else is in charge for a bit."

Lavellan feels his face grow hot again. It's uncomfortable for him how easily the Iron Bull can read him. He had said as much, once -- told him he had a face like an open book, that he was incapable of hiding anything, and that may not be entirely true, strictly speaking, but Lavellan is unsettled by how much he gives away without meaning to. Bull is not wrong; many times he had wished that, just once, someone else could be the one making the decisions. How he had craved that even before he'd been made Inquisitor, or Herald, or any other shem title. He'd never asked for any of that, had never expressed as much to anyone, and Bull had just... known.

"I... think you may be right."

"I am." Bull leans one elbow on one of his massive knees. "For what it's worth, I figured you'd've kicked me out if you disagreed."

Lavellan's head tilts slightly to one side, his brows knit together. "What about what _you_ need?"

Straightening, Bull laughs. It's a low chuckle, warm, slightly secretive. "Hey, I'm good. I am..." He pauses meaningfully and lets his gaze sweep over Lavellan's body, head to toe. He lingers somewhere around Lavellan's throat, and he can see Bull's hand flex. "...better than good. You, uh, don't trouble yourself on that front. Ol' Iron Bull is fine."

He's not convinced, but... he doesn't quite understand it to begin with. He brushes some of his hair out of his face and frowns. "Those times you talked about 'passing time' with the serving girls... is that what you do to them?"

"The serving girls spend most of their day following orders and feeling unimportant. They need someone who makes them feel special, lets 'em cut loose with no repercussions. I let 'em bounce on top and tell 'em their tits look nice. Everybody wins." There's a reminiscent look on his face, like he's recalling something specific, but he catches Lavellan looking at him. "...I mean, I used to. Long as we're doing this, you've got my complete attention."

Lavellan discovers that having the Iron Bull's complete attention is extremely unnerving.

"So what is this?" he asks. "What are we doing?"

"That's up to you, boss. If you want it light and casual, that's fine with me." 

'Light and casual' have never been what he is looking for, but Bull does not offer anything further. He's not sure what to think of that. Is this just a fling to him, something he feels he needs to do to keep his employer happy? Is it something else? He can't imagine why it would be; the only thing Lavellan has to offer is a title. Without it, he's only some elf.

People still call him 'knife-ear' when they don't recognise him. They're barely apologetic when they do.

But he wants this, and wants more, too. Part of him stubbornly clings to a hope he knows is foolish. "I, uh... so if I agree, how does this... work?"

Bull's tone is emphatic, but even. Sincere. "Outside this room, nothing changes. You're the Inquisitor. You're the boss. I will never hurt you without your permission. You will always be safe. If you're ever uncomfortable, if you ever want me to stop, you say 'katoh,' and it's over. No questions asked."

"No questions asked?"

"If you didn't trust me, you would have asked me to leave. But you didn't."

He definitely had not.

But he has to come back to this, because he's not sure he understands it. "Why 'katoh'? What's wrong with 'stop'?"

Bull rolls his shoulders. "You need someone else to be in charge. That can mean overriding you. I intend to push you past your comfort zone, and that can be... uncomfortable. You might want to fight me. You might not think you can handle it. Your instinct might be to say no, but you don't really want it to stop. Trust me, this shit can get confusing for people who have done it all their lives. I want you to act on your desires with no inhibitions. So say no, if your instinct is to say no. Fight me. Make me work for it. But if you want it to stop -- really, truly want it to stop -- then we pick a word you wouldn't normally cry out... one that means, in no uncertain terms, that you're not okay. And then everything stops." He's leaning forward again and looking at him with such intensity the entire time that Lavellan cannot look away. He feels pinned there by his gaze. "If I'm going to hurt you, boss, it's only going to be the kind of hurt that you want. _You_ need to know that you can stop it at any time. Feelings are messy and confusing. A watchword is clear."

Lavellan swallows, mouth dry. Bull is gazing at him with heat on his face, and he's waiting for an answer. "It's... a little unnerving that you have this down to a system."

"Systems are comfortable," he explains. "And my goal..." He rises, surprisingly fluid for someone of his bulk, and takes the two steps needed to close the distance between them, forcing Lavellan to look _up_ at him to see his face. "...is for you to get _very_ comfortable."

He's so close, looming over him like a dragon. Lavellan could reach out and touch him, if he wanted, but some part of him knows by instinct that he should not. Not because it would be unwanted, but because he needs to wait to be commanded. And he wants that -- wants Bull to tell him what to do, to command him as no one has dared command him since the Conclave. 

If he casts his eyes down, he's looking at Bull's bare chest, the thick indent of the scar tissue buried in his flesh, ragged, slightly shinier, his heavy muscles less as if they're sculpted, like a marble statue, and more like a mountain, progress over time. He's _thick._ It's hard to look at directly and see all of him, and Lavellan is forced to keep his head up to look him in the eye instead, forced to confront him directly rather than hide by averting his gaze. He opens his mouth.

"Take me."

He sees the corner of Bull's mouth twitch upwards. Approval. Desire. Hunger. "Can do." He lurches forward, a hand on Lavellan's waist and grasping it tightly as his other hand sweeps around and grabs his thick ponytail. Lavellan's hands fly up and press to his chest, his head jerked upward and forced to look at his face, eyes tracing his features -- his pointed chin, narrow nose, those high cheekbones and pointed ears... and, Ghilan'nain's hooves, those horns --

Bull lifts him with a single hand and presses his mouth into his so hard it takes Lavellan's breath away. He moans, his arms wrapping around his broad shoulders and neck as Bull's mouth opens, tongue stroking his lips and urging them apart. He's taking quick steps forward, carrying Lavellan towards the bed behind him and almost crashes into it. "Open," he hisses. "Open it, open your mouth." Lavellan drags one hand over his shoulder, nails scratching a white furrow into his grey skin as Bull assaults him with his tongue and teeth. "Open your mouth. Do it." His lips part just a fraction, but it's enough for Bull to shove his tongue in there and force him open, hot and wet. He moans again as he's lowered to the bed, rough hands grasping his shirt and tearing, this time, ripping it roughly off of him with zero regard for what it may have cost.

The Dalish in Lavellan, which is most of him, is appalled at the flagrant wastefulness. He's never thrown anything useful away in his life.

But the rest of him is... distracted at the sudden shock of cold air over his exposed bare skin, at the way Bull fists his hand around his ponytail and yanks hard so that the tie breaks and Lavellan's hair comes tumbling around his face. Bull won't release his mouth and he's having trouble breathing around him, sucking air in through his nose as the qunari swipes his hand over his chest, fingers pinching cruelly at one of his nipples. 

When he rises, his horn does catch on the heavy cloth canopy that Lavellan had forgotten to remove. He extracts it with a growl, shaking his head like a halla. "Do you care about this?" he says, fingering a drape in his wide hand.

"What? No."

"Good." He grunts, reaches up, and yanks, ripping a long strip out of the fabric. "Turn around." He moves off of him just enough that Lavellan can obey, rolling over onto his stomach, then jerking half-upright as Bull grabs both his arms and twists them behind him. He winces, but Bull angles them just enough that it doesn't hurt, then wraps that strip of torn fabric tightly around them and knots it firmly in place. His arms are now held out of the way, pulled tightly behind him. "You could have given me some warning, you know," he chuckles. "I would have brought some rope." 

Lavellan shivers, arrested by the thought of rope instead of torn fabric sliding over his heated flesh, holding his hands in place out of the way where they're clearly meant to be, rope against his neck, wrapped around his chest, tied tightly into thick knots... "Yes," he says. "Bring rope." 

"Will do," Bull grunts. He grabs him by the head and shoves, sending him jerking downward into the bed, one of his meaty hands holding him firmly in place there while the other slides over his waist to begin working the buckle of his trousers. "You know, much as I like tearing you out of all of this, it's real inconvenient. We've gotta solve that." He leans all the way forward, his chest pressed into Lavellan's back so he can feel the firmness of the muscle under his silver skin, the heat of his body, the roughness of his scars. He growls in his ear, "I'm thinking you're only allowed to wear clothes when I say you can. When we're alone, you strip." 

"Yes," Lavellan says, breathing the word out as his cock stirs and throbs between his legs. Bull yanks down, pulling his trousers down enough to expose his ass, which he gives a few swats -- not enough to do any real damage but certainly hard enough to sting and make him wince, squirming. 

He rests his hand over the now-tender flesh, feeling the heat it gives off. "Nice," he says. He yanks the garment the rest of the way down and lets Lavellan kick and squirm until it's removed from his person, falling to the floor in a heap. At least he won't have to explain to anyone how his trousers got ripped in half this time. The shirt's a lost cause, though. 

He hears another long rip, and tries to look behind him to see the source but Bull's hand is still crushing his face into the mattress below him. Lavellan squirms, and Bull swats his ass again. "Hold still." That hand releases his head, but grips his hair instead, fingers wrapping around the tail to yank his head back. His other hand slides around, and he threads another long, torn strip of brocade fabric around his face, covering his eyes, and knots it behind his head. Lavellan cries out in alarm, but Bull strokes his lips with fingers, slides them between his lips and traces them over his teeth, his gums, over his tongue, two fingers enough to fill his mouth until he can't quite close it. He can feel a little drool escape. "Shhh."

Everything is dark. He has a vague sense of light and shadow, some light slipping in from above or below the makeshift blindfold, but he can't make out any shapes. Bull drops him on the bed and he lays there, blindfolded, hands bound, confused, alarmed... aroused.

"Why can't I see?" he asks, not sure if he's allowed to ask questions.

"Because I don't want you to." Not able to see where he is or where his hands are, Lavellan twitches and jerks every time Bull touches him, unable to anticipate it. It's... very surprisingly hot, not knowing what he's about to do before he does it. Bull reaches around and slides his hand up his chest, fingers wrapping around his throat briefly on the way up and giving it a squeeze before moving on, probing at his lips. Lavellan opens his mouth automatically, receiving them eagerly, Bull pumping two digits in and out of his wet mouth, sliding over his plump lips. "You're going to have to trust me. Get these wet. That's it."

Lavellan doesn't need to be told twice, suckling as Bull thrusts his fingers in all the way to the second knuckle, far enough that the tips of his fingers tease at the back of his throat and make him gag. His fingers grope and stroke along his tongue, pinching it between, stroking the lower half, forcing his mouth open when it suits him so Lavellan has to drool around his fingers. Once he's satisfied with the slickness he pulls his hand away and Lavellan gasps, panting, toes twitching and curling.

Holding his throat in one hand, the one with the missing fingers, Bull lowers the other and slips in the cleft of Lavellan's ass, teasing at his tight hole until the elf is mewling and squirming in his grip. He's so wet with spittle that the first finger slides in easily, but it's the second that really opens him up, forcing him to stretch and spread around him.

Lavellan moans, legs spreading wide and hips bucking back into his hand. His cock is achingly hard by now, so stiff and hot between his legs, and he can barely think of anything except how much he wants to be fucked by him right then. Good and properly fucked, Bull's thick cock pounding into him... his fingers are tantalizingly _not enough._

"Please," he gasps. "Oh, please." 

He hears Bull chuckle, feels the rumble in his chest. "Please what? Use your words."

"Fuck me." He whimpers, bucking back further into his hand, trying to take him in deeper. "Please fuck me. _Please._ " 

"No."

Lavellan sobs in frustration, voice shaking, body trembling. "Please," he pleads again, struggling to fuck himself on the fingers gently stroking his insides but not thrusting as hard as he wants them to.

"No," Bull says again. Lavellan can feel rather than see as he leans over him, feels him squeeze his throat until he cuts off all the words along with his air. "Not tonight. When I think you're ready for it, and only then, I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you so hard I'll ruin you. You'll never take another cock without thinking of _mine._ " In sharp contrast to the hand squeezing his throat, to the fingers rolling inside of him and scissoring open, he presses a tender kiss to Lavellan's forehead. "...but not tonight." 

With his grip on his throat he hauls Lavellan across the bed and settles heavily under him, seated, Lavellan thinks, though he can't see his exact position. He releases his throat though his other hand continues to gently fuck him with his fingers, teasing at the hole with a third, and Lavellan can hear the sound of something unbuckling and untying. He feels before anything else the heat of flesh pressed close to his face, smells the thick musky scent of sex as he realises Bull has pulled his cock out with Lavellan's head in his lap. He turns his head, burying his nose against his shaft and mewling, and is rewarded with the sound of Bull sucking in a pleased breath. 

He feels Bull's cock press to his cheek, the heated shaft pressing into his face so close he can feel individual veins, thick and swollen, on the soft, smooth flesh of his shaft. "Open your mouth," the qunari commands, and he does, instantly, lips parted wide enough that Bull can shove the tip of his cock into his mouth. He's surprised, though not sure why, and barely manages to keep his teeth out of the way. On his stomach like this with his hands bound behind him, he can't sit up, can't move beyond shimmying his torso around, and it strains his back to lift himself enough to reach the head of Bull's cock.

"Suck," he commands. And Lavellan does. It is not easy; he can't _see_ the proffered member, can only feel it, and just feeling it makes it feel... probably even bigger than it actually is. He keeps his mouth wet by instinct, lets the spit collect and roll down the shaft in his mouth, over his lips, which makes it marginally easier to take a little more of Bull's massive cock into his willing mouth. He grunts, then moans, and is rewarded with a sharp, hard thrust of the fingers inside of him.

Bull presses his free hand to his head, strokes over the hair still trapped in a tie behind his head. "That's it," he murmurs. "That's it." Lavellan suckles on the head, getting it nice and wet and feeling it throb and release a hot dribble of precum that fills his mouth, a tantalizing hint of what is yet to come. He swallows it eagerly, cheeks hollowed out as his head slowly lowers over Bull's slick shaft, mouth and tongue working eagerly over the organ. He's never done this before, and acts purely on instinct, what he thinks might feel good. He figures he can't go wrong with enthusiasm.

Bull groans, fingers tugging on his hair. He never lets up with those gentle thrusting strokes inside of him with his fingers, rolling around to tease the muscle, every movement making Lavellan twitch and moan. The bed is wet underneath him where his cock has leaked a little precum. Bull's cock tastes amazing, a mixture of the slight salty tang of skin with the strange musk of a qunari body, the slightly bitterness of his cum... With a groan he lowers his head even further, mouth now straining around the girth of him, until the head of his cock presses into the back of his throat and he gags.

Bull's hand grasps his head and pushes, holding him in place right there. "There," he says. "No, keep it there. That's it. There's a good boy." Lavellan is choking on it, feeling the panic swell in his chest and belly as he struggles to breathe, coughing, gagging, his mouth flooded with spit that chokes out around the qunari's cock. 

He gasps for air when his head is released and he's able to pull it up, sucking air through his nose because his mouth is still occupied; Bull lets him come up enough so that his throat isn't stuffed, but not enough to remove his shaft from his mouth. His eyes are watering under the makeshift blindfold, stinging, a choked gurgle on his lips as Bull's hand forces his head back down again, and soon he's not sucking his cock so much as having his face fucked. Every time he shoves Lavellan's head down over his shaft he thrusts three fingers inside of him, the movements simultaneous so all he can think about is what it will feel like when Bull finally, _finally_ , fucks his ass. 

He chokes, gags, gurgles, lewd wet sucking noises drowning out anything he may have been trying to plead. He's grinding his hips into the bed below him but it's not what he really wants, desperate for more contact, which Bull does not seem to intend to allow, and it occurs to him too late that Bull intends to make him cum without ever touching his cock. And it's working. His face feels hot and tight, throat burning, tears streaming from his eyes as the qunari fucks his face almost casually. He's undone, out of control, the whole of his attention on Bull's body, his cock, his fingers --

With a groan he jerks and spasms, a hot white heat between his legs as he comes, throbbing, practically sobbing in relief. His throat tightens around the cock invading it and he chokes hard, knees clamping together. A low strangled whining noise emits from his mouth, his back arched with his ass in the air, pushed up by his knees on the bed below him. Bull says something but he does not hear it, his eyes rolling up in his head as his cock throbs and spasms. He never lets up those thrusts of his hips, fucking Lavellan's face all throughout his orgasm until, with a roar, he comes himself, Lavellan's mouth flooded almost immediately with a torrent of his thick seed, which pours down his throat but also escapes from his mouth to dribble down his chin in a white froth. 

He swallows as much as he can. It is phenomenally difficult, and when Bull finishes and pulls out of him his gasp for air is wet and choked.

He's panting, breathing hard, Bull with his fingers still buried in his ass, stroking and thrusting gently throughout his orgasm until the elf sighs and lays still but for an occasional twitch. He's never come like that before -- never thought he would be able to without direct stimulation of his shaft. With a groan he stirs and Bull slightly raises one leg, a hand on his jaw to turn his face to the side. Lavellan realises he's checking on him, and moans quietly to let him know he's okay. He's not hurt.

Well. Not _really_ hurt.

He goes gently limp, purring faintly through his throat strains and burns when it rumbles like that, and begins to curl up his legs to lay down on his side when Bull grips him by the hair and yanks him, tossing him to the side. He grunts and makes a confused, distant noise, head turning to try to identify where the qunari is now that he's risen from the bed with a groan of protest from the wood.

"Oh," Bull says, and Lavellan can feel, but not _see_ , his wicked grin. "You thought we were done?" He leans over, face so close to Lavellan's ear that his teeth scrape the cartilage. Lavellan hears the faint whir of leather sliding over flesh, hears a sharp crack as Bull snaps his belt between his hands.

"I'm just... getting... warmed... up."


	3. ataas shokra.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull discovers Lavellan's new hobby and ups the ante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took so long... i originally wrote it entirely from the iron bull's perspective, but when i got to the smut i just hit a wall. i can't top. which is weird. because this is fanfic, so like, i have to write both sides anyway???? i don't fuckin know. anyway i finally just gave up and switched perspectives so here's your porn! it is very long. it goes without saying this is very unrealistic. just enjoy the dicks please. thank you.
> 
> disclaimer i know nothing about swords and did 0 research that is 100% inaccurate too. in my defense they are MAGIC swords so.

The Iron Bull leans over the wooden fence of the practice yard, arms folded over a post, and watches as Lavellan wails on a training dummy. With a sword.

His grip is good, he realises. Stance good, too. And those aren't the wild, flailing movements of an amateur picking up a weapon for the first time; they're the awkward, clumsy attempts of someone practicing what they have just recently been taught, repetitious movements to develop muscle memory, slow and deliberate to be sure the movements are right. He's not just flailing. He's doing drills. So: not as ill-advised as one might think.

"So that's new," he comments, and Lavellan, evidently not having heard him, startles, stumbles, and nearly whacks himself in the knee with his dull-edged practice sword.

He spins around, panting, face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. And elf sweat has a particular odour that is... not unpleasant, warm, a little acrid, sort of... spicy. Not quite the porky smell of human sweat. Earthy. Bull's disappointed to see he's still wearing a shirt. "Yes." Lavellan is panting slightly. It's... alluring. Distracting may be a better word. The elf throws up his hands, or one of them, the other one holding the sword only makes it about halfway. "Uh, you caught me."

The Iron Bull straightens, and hops over the fence with ease, approaching now that Lavellan is aware of him and less likely to accidentally bash him in the belly. "Who's teaching you?"

"Commander Heliane," Lavellan answers. The Iron Bull remembers her -- tall, imposing elf lady in light iron armour and a longsword who came by a few weeks ago. Lavellan ducks his head, rubs his hand over the back of his slightly damp neck. "...and Cullen, a little." 

Ah, he thought he recognised that particular style of swordplay. Templar written all over it.

The Iron Bull rolls his head to one side. "And the purpose is...?" Lavellan is a mage, and quite slender; if he's planning on making the switch to warrior, it's not going to happen in the next couple of weeks. He's going to need time to build muscle, to practice until the sword becomes an extension of his arm like it ought to.

"Battle-magic," Lavellan says. "It's called knight-enchanting. ... knight-enchantering." The Iron Bull chuckles. "Solas says the ancient elves did it, too. You know -- used magic to augment their physical prowess. Blended the two into one. He says it was like an art form. _Dirth'ena enasalin._ So..." He ducks his head, peeks up at The Iron Bull from under his long eyelashes. "It's probably stupid, but --"

"Not stupid. Suits you, I think. If you're going to keep running into the vanguard, you'd better be prepared for it." He holds out his hand, inclines his head at the weapon. "May I?"

Lavellan passes it over gingerly despite the fact that no one is in any danger of getting cut with the blade, and The Iron Bull is not expecting the heft of it and nearly drops it. "Oof," he says, turning it over in his hand, lifting it, giving it a swing. "Boss, this is too heavy for you." It's light to him, but there's enough of him to make four Lavellans.

Lavellan wrinkles his nose and shrugs, an arm lifted to wipe sweat off his brow. "I have all my weapons weighted," he says.

"Because...?"

"It's harder at first, but it makes me stronger in the long run. And most weapons aren't weighted for someone my size; what if I have to pick up some shem's spear in battle?"

He can think of someone else's spear Lavellan can handle.

... Focus, The Iron Bull.

"Yeah, I can tell. Get a load of those muscles." He reaches over and squeezes Lavellan's bicep, which makes him laugh and jerk away. The Iron Bull puts his hands on his hips, looking down at him and considering. Lavellan will never be a warrior of brute force, but he can see potential there... potential likely wasted on the likes of Cullen and that hot elf chick. "So. You serious about this?"

Lavellan frowns, punches him in the arm. A gesture he picked up from Krem, but Krem has some force behind his punches. "Of course I'm serious. When am I ever not serious? -- don't answer that."

He chuckles. "I just meant, if it's something you seriously want to pursue... maybe they're not right for you."

Lavellan pauses, turned towards him, his head cocked like a pup trying to make sense of something. Which is adorable, and distracting. "What do you mean?"

The Iron Bull leans back against that fencing, legs crossed casually at the ankle. His posture is relaxed, but anyone looking knows how he has his center of gravity firmly planted. It'd take a dragon to knock him over, even like this. "Cullen's a templar," he says. "And a knight. They're taught to fight with a certain sense of... honour. Plus, he's six foot a million, and you're about, oh, nug-sized."

Lavellan scowls at him. Cute.

"And that Commander Heliane? She's more of the same. Military. Circle-trained, isn't she? She probably learned a lot of her swordplay from the templars themselves. Plus... hatchi matchi, that's a whole lotta woman." A comment he drops casually into the conversation just to survey Lavellan's reaction. He's interested to see it: the faint flash of jealousy quickly hidden behind pursed lips, like stuffing something into the closet to hide it. 

"What's your point?" he asks, hands on his slim hips.

"My point is, you're little. Don't get pissed at me, it's true. You're not like them. You can't rely on raw physical strength. You're not going to be pummeling anyone into the ground by virtue of your massive biceps alone. Impressive though they are."

"Thank you, I'm so glad you noticed," Lavellan says, solemnly sarcastic. The Iron Bull feels his eye crinkle in mirth. 

"So it's good to learn to fight like a templar, but you should maybe consider expanding your bag of tricks, too. Take advantage where you can... and that means fighting dirty." He hoists himself upright, standing well over seven feet tall; Lavellan comes up... just chest-high, about. "I could show you a thing or two too, you know."

Lavellan cocks his head again, but the effect is slightly off-set by how high he has to tilt to look up at his face and not at his nipples. "All right," he says at length. "You're on." 

The Iron Bull nods and grins -- well, this ought to be interesting -- and turns to pull another dull practice sword out of the nearby rack. He hefts it, testing the balance, and finding it lacking, puts it back and grabs another; this one feels better, though it's too small for him still. There's a reason he takes those great big two-handers out with him. Swords forged for human hands fit more like daggers in his.

He squares off against Lavellan, watching as the man hefts his too-heavy sword. This isn't going to be a fair fight, but he's not actually trying to spar with him. Just test his skill a little bit.

"So. Why Cullen?" The Iron Bull circles him, checking his stance. "Why not Cassandra? She's good."

Lavellan grunts, turning to follow him. He's not about to let The Iron Bull sneak up on him from behind. "Because if Cassandra came at me with a sword, I'd just scream and piss my pants."

The Iron Bull throws his head back and belly-laughs. It doesn't escape him, the pleased flush over Lavellan's face. Interesting that he cares about making him laugh. "Yeah, me too." He feints once, notes how quickly Lavellan responds. Of course he's not an amateur in combat, he's been training with that stick for fuck knows how long, but The Iron Bull is willing to bet that Lavellan still overestimates the reach of the sword, expecting a six-foot staff in his hand. Either way, he's planning on going easy on him. No use discouraging him by knocking him into the dirt right away, and he's not some asshole who's got something to prove. 

Lavellan strikes first in earnest, which he's expecting. It's not that Lavellan is impatient, but he's direct and he prefers action to inaction. The Iron Bull makes contact blade to blade but does not put his whole weight behind it, because he'd send Lavellan flying across the training circle if he did. Instead he puts enough resistance in there that he can see Lavellan straining in response, trying and failing to overpower him, and then retreating with the screeching strain of metal sliding over metal as he skids back a few feet.

Fast. He's always gotta remember that about these elves. The Iron Bull is faster than he looks but Lavellan has maybe a quarter of the weight to carry around, and he's not operating on a bum leg either. In a sprint race, Lavellan would win. Probably an endurance one, too.

If he's smart, he'll take his time to try to wear The Iron Bull down. Of course, the longer he waits, the more chance he'll make a mistake, and one mistake is all The Iron Bull needs. That's the gamble.

He can see Lavellan is considering it, so he doesn't press. He waits, patient as the mountain he resembles, and he's right: Lavellan comes to him.

He comes in quick, of course, and low, and The Iron Bull approves that he comes in at his blind side. Good instinct to take advantage of an enemy's weakness, but Lavellan's still an amateur who telegraphs his movements with the twitch of muscle alone, and he's expecting it. He slides out of the way and gives him a whack on the ass with the blunt of his sword, grinning when Lavellan yelps and hops forward, spinning around on the ball of his feet so fast he almost topples over. 

He is patient. Lavellan is not as hot-headed as he'd thought, but he's seen him fight before and he's good. It's just that he's not able to disguise what he's thinking to The Iron Bull, who can read him like a book. Lavellan is fast but he's one step ahead of him the whole time -- dodging, feinting, striking blade to blade and pushing him back, slowly forcing him to give up ground. He can sense Lavellan's frustration and lets him get in a few good whacks. Once or twice he leaves his bad leg open, but Lavellan doesn't take it -- doesn't see it, or is unwilling to take advantage? Because he won't ever, or because The Iron Bull is his ... 

... friend?

He punishes him for that, of course, and is amused as Lavellan's mounting frustration and exhaustion makes him more aggressive. The Iron Bull finds himself on the defensive, and though he's playing with Lavellan it's fascinating to him to see, physically see, the way he thinks played out by the way he acts. 

And then he's distracted.

"Whoo!"

He glances to the side and catches a glimpse of Krem on the other side of the fence, hand cupped around his mouth while the other shakes in the air. "Whoo, Inquisitor!" Krem shouts again. "Kick his ass!"

Ah, shit, and there's the rest of the Chargers meandering their way over -- some leaning over the fence, others loitering just outside of it. Krem climbs up with his feet on the bottom rung and leans over it, hooting and hollering, and is soon joined in rooting on Lavellan by Skinner, Rocky, and Dalish, who throws her hands up in the air and howls, firing off a small, colorful explosion. Everyone turns and looks at her and she throws up her hands and says, "What? I fired an _arrow!_ " while the rest of them groan and roll their eyes.

"Knock him on his arse, Lavellan!" Stitches shouts.

"Hey," The Iron Bull calls back, most of his attention focused on his more-distracted opponent. "Who pays your bills, you ingrates?"

"He does," they all say in unison, pointing at the Inquisitor.

... fair enough.

He growls and then is genuinely surprised at the bloom of dull pain in his thigh. Lavellan has struck him in earnest when he didn't intend to be struck, and it surprises and pleases him, but he sees the way Lavellan flinches and, instead of pressing the advantage, retreats. So he pursues. The Chargers are still back there hollering and being a nuisance, and he'll make the whole lot of them do laps later; right now he's more focused on his opponent. 

Very focused, because he's finding himself a little bit... distracted watching the way Lavellan's chest heaves, how his face is flushed under his vallaslin with his exertion, the sweat streaking his face and rolling down his long, delicate neck to collect under his shirt and leave a dark wet patch over his chest. The heat coming off of his skin even from this far away, his hot sweet breath from his panting lips, how those long lean muscles shift and twist under his dark skin... He has to mentally pick his brain up out of his dick and drag it back into his head. Now is not the time.

Could be the time.

He presses, sweeps, knocks Lavellan off balance and then has him pinned to the edge of the fence. Their bodies are so close for just a second that he can let his hand pass over Lavellan's waist and make it seem like an accident, all the while savouring the quick sharp intake of breath, the sudden rush of heartbeat that leaps into his throat and pulses closely under the skin. For a moment The Iron Bull lets him feel the full size of him, looming over him, hot and thick, and is reward by how Lavellan stumbles, a solitary and involuntary exclamation on his lips when he is pressed into the fence behind him.

Then The Iron Bull pulls away, gives him space, lets the dance begin again, but it's... different now. Lavellan feels it too, he sees it on his face.

And he lets him go at him a few more times -- noting they've gotten a larger audience, recruits and soldiers and pilgrims curious to see the Inquisitor having a friendly sparring match with The Iron Bull -- and while what he really wants is to knock Lavellan into the dirt, pin him there, rip his clothes off and show him who's in charge around here... well.

Probably not the image they want for the Inquisition.

Once he's sure Lavellan has had enough and even he is breaking a sweat, he swings to meet his weapon and rather than get locked in a grapple, he loosens his grip enough that Lavellan knocks the practice sword out of his hand. The Iron Bull grins, toothy, and holds up both hands in the universal symbol of 'okay, I surrender'. He hears a cheer around them, friendly and laughing, gossip already spreading from person to person that he's sure will spread even farther and grow more exaggerated, but when he looks down at Lavellan's face he sees that he's _pissed._

Well, then.

He claps him on the shoulder so hard Lavellan winces and nearly falls over. "Nice fight," he says. "Next time I'll show you some moves." He winks, a gesture he always forgets is rather pointless since he only has the one eye, so it's just a blink. He sweeps up his practice sword and puts it back on the rack and takes off, leaving Lavellan surrounded by normally shy supplicants clamouring for his attention and favour. 

Maybe he's given him some things to think about, anyway.

\---

Lavellan has cornered him, and gives him a shove. Which would not be cool if The Iron Bull were anyone else, but given that he's about twice as tall and built like a particularly sturdy tree, and the shove feels like getting tickled by a butterfly, it's an empty gesture, and Lavellan knows that.

They're in the stairwell just off the main hallway, where Lavellan has caught him on his way to the baths for a quick wash. They're far enough away from the main foot traffic that no one would hear them here if they screamed at each other, and Lavellan is, disappointingly, no longer draped in that sweat-strewn rough linen shirt, but instead smells clean and neat and alluring.

"You _let me_ win," Lavellan accuses. "You can't _do_ that! How am I going to get any better if people just let me win?"

Of course he'd be pissed about that.

The Iron Bull can't help chuckling. He's adorable. "You're right, I let you win." Some of the righteous fury deflates from Lavellan, but he still looks pissy. The Iron Bull really wants to bend him over and spank that attitude right out of him, but this is probably a conversation that should remain serious for at least a couple of minutes.

The attitude adjustment will come later.

"I'm sure the audience didn't escape your notice. You've built a reputation on being infallible, you really want those guys to see you get knocked into the dirt by an underling?"

Lavellan scoffs so loudly it comes out as a cute, but not very dignified, snort. "You're not an underling. You've never been _under_ anything."

Ooh... yeah. Definitely gonna give that attitude an adjustment. Later.

Funny, though.

So he reaches out and ruffles the Inquisitor's hair, knowing being treated like a child like that drives him 'absolutely out of his mind crazypants,' as Sera would put it. He likes the outraged noise Lavellan makes, the way his mouth purses and fists clench. More than that, he knows that subtle displays of dominance like that make him weak in the knees. "You're the boss. The Inquisitor. They think you're larger than life, and larger than life heroes don't get spanked by their mercenary captains." He pauses, cocks his head, and abruptly leans in close... real, real close. "Not in public, anyway." 

The flush of colour that spreads over Lavellan's face is always a delight to watch, whether it's embarrassment or arousal or... something else. His skin changes colour from neck to the tips of his ears, but the lines of his vallaslin always remain the same. He'll have to ask him about those tattoos someday, The Iron Bull thinks. He's asked Dalish, but she never really answered. 

He watches the lump travel in Lavellan's throat as he swallows, the way his eyes dart from side to side and he pulls back slightly. Not retreating, but asking to be chased. The difference is in the pulse, and he's damned good at reading that, so he takes two steps forward and forces Lavellan to step backwards in turn until his back is pressed against the wall, hands on either side, palms flat on the cold stone.

"Don't worry, boss," he says, leaning in and nipping delicately at the tip of that long, pointed ear. "Next time we'll find a nice secluded spot and I'll beat your ass right into the dirt." His hand slides up Lavellan's chest, fingers wrapping loosely around his throat, as he growls into his ear, "Right after I beat your ass right into the bed."

Lavellan's heart stumbles and flutters, he can feel the rapid crazy hammering of it against his hand. His face is flushed, skin heated, pulse risen, and when The Iron Bull glances to the side he can see how wide and dark his pupils are in his bright eyes. He's ripe for it, and The Iron Bull is rather tempted to fuck him right here, right in the stairwell.

Ah, but that wouldn't be any fun. Not with what he has plans for, anyway. 

"What's your watchword?" he murmurs, thumb stroking the curve of Lavellan's throat, right in the center, and pressing lightly enough into his windpipe that he can feel the pressure, but still speak.

Lavellan blinks, is reminded, of course, of the rules. He licks his lips and says, "My watchword is katoh." 

"Good boy." He pulls back, leaves him lurching and hanging there for a second before his hands sweep around to grip him by the ass and haul him upright, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He weighs less than The Iron Bull's axe, he could swing him around by the ankle if he wanted to. The thought makes him unbearably horny. 

Lavellan whimpers, and he silences him with a slap on the ass as he carries him through the broken, half-collapsed disused hallways of Skyhold towards the Inquisitor's quarters. This place has too damn many of these unused entrances and exits, rooms with holes in them easy for anyone to get in through... but after doing some testing of his own, well, The Iron Bull is confident that Sister Nightengale hasn't ignored them, and has every nook and cranny of this place monitored at all times. And she probably knows exactly how far this relationship has gone and how long it's lasted. Shit, she's probably keeping a tally somewhere.

... he should ask. He lost track.

He takes the steps three or four at a time, maybe a little eager himself, and once they've emerged into the semi-darkness of Lavellan's private chambers -- at least half the damn candles always get blown out this high up -- he crosses the room in a few short steps and hurls his lover right onto the bed with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Stunned, he lays still long enough that The Iron Bull has the time to grab a length from one of his many stashes of rope. He's prepared, these days. Always has supplies on hand. 

With Lavellan on his belly he bends over him to yank hard on his shirt, popping the buttons holding it closed forcefully, and tugs back until he strips it from him, leaving him bare from the waist up. He gets another good whiff of that heated body and his nostrils flare. His attention narrows on clapping those wrists together and wrapping them in a thick cord of rope which he knots easily in three places. Impossible to struggle out of on his own, but The Iron Bull knows exactly where to pull to instantly release those knots if needed.

Lavellan trusts him with this -- trusts that The Iron Bull will release him if he asks, trusts that he will not hurt him beyond what he can take, that he will not take advantage of him like this. It's a gift he gives him every time they do this, not just his submission but his trust, and The Iron Bull is not sure Lavellan realises how precious that gift is. 

He's had this ready, too. They've been fooling around for about five weeks, and Lavellan had displayed zero interest in anyone else. The Iron Bull had allowed him to set the tone for whatever this was, but they hadn't yet talked specifics. _If you want to keep it light and casual, that's fine with me,_ he had said, but he had been watching Lavellan's face when he said it, saw how his brows knit together and his mouth turned downward just at the corners. 

The Iron Bull knows exactly what he wants, what he needs, but he's waiting for Lavellan to say it. He needs to know it's what Lavellan wants -- not what Lavellan thinks The Iron Bull wants.

He leans over him, spreads his hand over Lavellan's bare back, palm passing over his scars. His foot slides between Lavellan's, hooks him by the ankle and yanks, pulling his legs and forcing them to spread wide. 

"Are you ready?" he rumbles in one of those long ears, his lips passing over the tip to give it a little nibble and then a hard bite just to reward himself for a job well done with Lavellan's soft moan. His hand slides under Lavellan's belly and then further down still, cupping him between the legs and feeling how he stirs for him. 

"Yes," Lavellan says breathlessly.

The Iron Bull grasps his cock, outlined now clearly through his trousers, and squeezes hard enough to make Lavellan buck and groan. "That's a good boy," he murmurs.

\---

Lavellan's wrists are bound over his head, and he's belly-down stretched out over his bed. Bull's hands are busy, turning him this way and that and wrapping him in long lengths of rope nearly as soft as silk, close and firm but not so tight that it scrapes his skin. The rope encircles his whole torso, wraps around his chest to outline the soft flesh at his breast, a line of knotted circles down both his front and back that Bull can hook a finger into and flip him about if he wants. Bull has left his legs free in that they're not bound together, but he doesn't hesitate in tearing off Lavellan's trousers and flinging them to the ground, wrapping that rope down his legs and circling around and around his hips and groin. A knot rests at the base of his cock, a strand of rope nestled in the curves of his ass where it meets his thighs. It's tight enough around his legs to be slightly uncomfortable, and will leave red indentations behind when he removes it later.

Lavellan relishes in the thought.

He turns his head to try to see him over his shoulder, but Bull whacks him on the ass and he flinches and turns his head back around, a pleading whine in his throat. Bull's enormous hand strokes over the same space, soothing, and he leans over him, presses his lips to the back of Lavellan's neck.

"Good?" he murmurs. "Anything pinching?"

"No." He flinches, jerks, as Bull digs his fingers into his side in a pinch. Reminding him. "No, ser." 

"Good."

Once Bull has him properly trussed from throat to ankle he slides his hands over his sides and Lavellan shivers, arching his back to try to press more tightly to his hands. Bull hooks his fingers in a loop and yanks and something tightens uncomfortably around Lavellan's nipple, making him flinch, lips parted enough that Bull can shove two of his fingers into his mouth. "Suck on these," he growls, and Lavellan obeys instantly, lips closing around his fingers and his wet mouth suckling eagerly. He's sucked Bull's cock enough times by now to be more confident with his tongue and throat, sliding his tongue all over and letting the spittle collect in his mouth to the point where every time Bull thrusts his fingers in it's accompanied with a wet lewd sound that fills the room. 

Bull stretches his fingers apart, digs into Lavellan's cheeks and forces his mouth open, forcing him to drool and letting the spit run down his chin -- he likes Lavellan wet. Once he's slick enough Bull pulls his hand back and shoves it between his legs, two fingers rubbing and grinding just behind his balls and then up between the cheeks, probing at his hole. 

"Oh, please," Lavellan pants, hips bucking to try to grind against his hand, and Bull laughs.

"Already begging?" 

"/Yes/, I'm begging," Lavellan growls, then winces when Bull delivers another slap to his ass. "Ser. Yes. Please. Please."

"Good boy." A shiver of warm pleasure courses through Lavellan's body. He urgently grinds back into the hand still prodding at his backside, Bull's thumb pressed into the skin between balls and hole, pressing in and making him moan unconsciously. His hips start to roll, riding that prodding pressure, his cock stiff between his legs he can feel it pressing into his stomach. "I can never decide," Bull rumbles thoughtfully, "whether I want to look at your face or your ass. It's a great ass." His finger slips up, teases at his ass, then slips in up to the first knuckle and Lavellan jerks forward, spreads his legs as wide as he can, and moans loudly enough for the sound to carry to the door. He's grateful Bull left his legs loose, though lines of rope twine around both of his thighs separately. He can feel it rub his skin whenever he shifts. 

The head of his cock is fiercely damp. There's so much precum he thinks for a second that he's already come.

Bull rolls his finger around in a gentle twirling motion and Lavellan bends over until his chest hits the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, his cock throbbing with need. The friction of Bull's finger spreading him just barely open, buried shallowly in until he begins to push it forward bit by bit -- to the second knuckle, then all the way to the third... Lavellan pants, a thin sheen of sweat over his brow, and arches his back in desperate need when Bull's middle finger joins the first. And Bull's fingers are _thick_ \-- just two of them stings, makes him whimper and whine. 

But has absolutely no effect on the hardness of his cock. Except to maybe increase it.

Bull strokes and twists and rubs, plays with him until he wants to scream though he keeps it clamped tightly inside his teeth out of spite for torturing him like this. Which Bull can sense, clearly, because he pulls his fingers out of him, reels back, and spits onto his hole, probing with his thumb to wet Lavellan's tight pink hole. He spits again until the wetness dribbles down to the inside of Lavellan's thighs, and once he's judged it's enough for now he hooks a finger in a loop of rope and flips him over.

Lavellan is panting, chest heaving, legs spread wide with his hips angled to provide what he hopes is the most tempting view. He can't see Bull's face clearly, his eyes are clouded with wet heat, eyelashes matted from tears he hadn't been aware of shedding. Bull's hands grasp the underside of each of his thighs and lift them, one slung over his broad shoulder, the other gripping. His free hand threads another rope through the loops and over the bedframe that used to support a canopy until Lavellan got rid of it, which is convenient for him, and he uses it now to tie the elf's legs up and spread wide.

"How's that feel?" he asks.

"Ah --" Incredible, it feels incredible. He has no idea why it feels so right to him to be tied and spread and pinned for his pleasure, why he craves to obey his commands. "Hurts," he manages. He's not used to being so direct, but Bull asks him and he has to answer.

"Hurts where?"

"Ah -- my -- leg. My thigh. High." Bull touches his leg and Lavellan sighs. "Higher." Bull's hand rises, fingertips brushing over the rope that wraps around where Lavellan's thigh meets his hip, the tender delicate flesh there and Lavellan nods. Bull does -- something, he's not sure, and the pressure there releases. Lavellan sighs again.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Lavellan has closed his eyes; he wants to look at Bull's face, always wants to look at his handsome face but he can't handle it right now. He shivers again in pleasure as Bull's fingers slip inside of him again, this time slick with some sort of oil he must have pulled from the drawer of Lavellan's nightstand. The one Bull put there, because they've been fooling around for weeks. He's riding the pleasure of Bull penetrating him when something clamps down on one of his nipples and he lets out an undignified shriek, his whole body spasming and back arching. His eyes fly open and he can see Bull hovering over him, one hand with his fingers in him, the other reaching over his chest to --

The pressure is swift and overwhelming. Both of his nipples now are clamped tightly in -- where did he get clothespins from?

Lavellan whimpers and fidgets, his entire body squirming but unable to get far trussed as he is, and Bull leans down to graze his teeth over his chest, tantalizingly close to the pinching pressure on either side. "Hurts?" he rumbles.

"Yes," Lavellan whines.

"Want to use your watchword?"

"No."

"No you don't want to use your watchword?"

Lavellan wants to scream, or hit him, or -- kick him out of the Inquisition or something if he doesn't fuck him _right now._

"I can handle it. Fuck. Please. _Please._ Fuck me, please." His eyes squeeze tightly shut to hold in tears of frustration, need, desire, pleasure, spite.

Bull sinks his teeth into his chest until he moans a hysterical half-sob, half-laugh, Lavellan's head rolling to the side, his pants hot and heavy from his lips. "Good boys are honest," Bull says. "Honesty is rewarded." He's surprisingly fast, so much so that Lavellan does not realise for a moment that he's positioned himself between his legs.

When he does, his heart leaps into his throat. His balls ache. He wants, like he has never, ever wanted anything before, Bull's cock inside of him -- has been aching for it for weeks, fantasizing, imagining, slowly conditioned by the qunari for the purpose of taking him. His mouth is dry, and he whimpers.

"No," he says, quickly, before Bull can ask. "No I don't want to use my watchword."

Bull chuckles thoughtfully, and pinches the back of his thigh just under his ass. "Not sure if I'm happy to hear you communicate or annoyed with your tone." Lavellan opens his mouth as if to respond, but Bull has reached between his legs and he can feel his erection pressed to him, resting between his cheeks and --

Fuck, it's big. He always forgets until it's right... there.

He's so ready for it. His cock is a mess. He hadn't even known it was possible to be this... wet. It doesn't feel normal, does it? 

Bull rocks his hips, his cock grinding against Lavellan's ass and it's almost more than he can take. He wants to beg and plead, but would it help? Not at all.

He hisses, grinds against him as much as possible. He's slick and ready for it, he's sure that he is, and Bull's teasing is enough to drive him out of his mind. He's so distracted by his need that he does not notice at first that Bull has gripped his cock and lined the head up with his hole.

Lavellan groans, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and makes a concentrated effort to hold still. To relax. His heart is hammering in his throat, stomach doing strange little flips, the oddest mix of excitement and apprehensive fear sending a shiver down his spine. 

"Please," he says, and his voice is very small. "Please fuck me, ser." 

Bull looms over him, and there's so gods-damned _much_ of him that he completely blocks Lavellan's view of anything else. It's all scarred silver skin as far as he can see. "Because you asked so nicely," he growls, and Lavellan throws his head back and _hisses_ loudly as he feels the thick head of his cock begin to, slowly, penetrate him. He starts to pant, bound hands reflexively opening and closing, trying to grasp something but unable to reach. It hurts. He hadn't been sure -- he'd thought maybe, probably, but people did this all the time, didn't they? But it hurts and he doesn't hate it. When Bull stops moving, Lavellan releases a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, letting the tension he hadn't been aware of building drain from his back and belly. 

"Ah," he says. Because yes, it hurts, but -- "Fenedhis lasa, that -- yes. Please. Oh, Creators, please." Fuck, that feels incredible. Fingers and tongues were not enough to prepare him for this.

Bull is not moving, and Lavellan's impatience almost gets the better of him, but Bull is the expert here, not him. He trusts him to see him through this safely, and he waits until he can open his eyes, gazing up at him, sweat on his brow and chest, eyelashes matted. His face feels hot, is it hot? He opens his mouth but Bull rocks his hips forward and whatever words he was about to say choke in his throat, turn into a high feral whimper, his mouth opening.

"Good?" Bull murmurs. He can't answer, can only nod frantically. "More?"

Lavellan whimpers. When he doesn't answer, Bull waits. It's maddening. "More, please." His voice sounds thin and choked.

And Bull provides. He's slow, methodological, and Lavellan knows that what he wants is for Bull to fuck him like he hates him but what he needs is for him to take his time. As it is he's certain he can feel every agonizing inch sliding inside him, slick, he realises, with some kind of oil, had he seen him do that? Does it matter? Lavellan's hands tighten into fists clenched so hard that he can feel his knuckles strain, legs fighting the ropes holding them spread up and out of the way, but he's trussed so neatly that the best he can do is curl and uncurl his toes. Whenever he squirms those pins clamped on his nipples shift the pressure they provide, and it's the worst and best, that constant pinching pressure. 

His breath comes out in a shuddering moan once he feels Bull's hips press into his ass and realises that the man is all the way inside of him, hilted in him, Lavellan's body spread wide for him, tight around his thick length. Bull's hand, the one with the missing fingers, runs palmwise over his torso, cruelly skips Lavellan's nipples, and reaches up to rub his remaining intact fingers against Lavellan's lips until he spreads those, too, and lets Bull slide the digits in between all the way to the second knuckle. He moans again and closes his mouth around them, suckling as he's become conditioned to do, eyes half-hooded with the pleasure of being _full_ , the warm thrill whenever either of them shifts position even slightly, how Bull's cock rubs against his sensitive tender flesh. 

He does not care about Ferelden or Orlais or anywhere else on this blighted world. All he cares about is being used like this. 

His head lolls back, tongue stroking and playing with the fingers in his mouth, a wet moan in his throat when Bull begins to equally slowly pull back out of him. There's a moment of panic -- no, he doesn't want him to stop! -- until Bull rolls his hips forward again, still slow, careful, and then he's fucking him gently, his fat cock grinding and thrusting inside of Lavellan's tightness. His mouth is a drooling mess around the thick fingers prying his lips apart, his aching cock throbbing with need, slick with trails of his precum. He's going to come without even being touched. Again.

Bull's good at that.

His pleasured moan soon turns urgent with exertion as Bull speeds up. It's in degrees, so it's never truly painful, but overwhelming all the same -- first the gentle _thrust_ and rhythm matching the way his fingers penetrate Lavellan's open eager mouth, then the faster steady pumping that fills the room with the sound of Bull's heavy balls slapping gently against Lavellan's ass, round and taut and so frequently covered in Bull's bruises and welts. He's going to come. Oh, Creators, fuck. He's going to come. He opens his mouth to tell Bull as much but what comes out instead is a noise that sounds barely human.

Bull's fingers spread, forcing Lavellan's mouth open wider before they reach under his tongue, so slick with his spit, and when he pulls away a trail of it attaches Lavellan's mouth to his fingers still. "Fuck," Bull hisses. "You're so fucking tight. Good boy. You good fucking boy. That's it." Now when he pulls back his hips snap forward hard enough to make Lavellan jump and whimper, his mouth free to open and howl. Bull grasps him by the throat faster than he can see and squeezes once before relaxing enough so that Lavellan can breath, but tight enough that he has to be aware of the fist around his tender throat. "You take that cock, you dirty boy. You good boy." 

Lavellan mewls, desperate and needy. Good boy, he's a good boy. This is where he belongs, this is what he wants. This, here, now, with him, submitting to him, presenting him with every part of him to do with as he likes. It leaves him desperately aroused to have what he offers taken by him, for Bull to be the first man to inspire such feelings of obedience and loyalty in him. For Bull to be the first inside him.

Bull thrusts in earnest, leans over him, and with a hand still wrapped around Lavellan's throat he presses their faces together mouth to mouth, his tongue as demanding as his fingers had been when it penetrates his mouth, aggressive, seeking as he kisses him on his open mouth. Lavellan can barely hear the huffing pant of his breath over the sound of the qunari's balls slapping against his ass or his own loud, wanton moans as a heady warmth builds between his legs, in his ass and in his cock, threatening to spill over. He wants to beg and plead and profess his commitment to obedience to him, but Bull's tongue is in every inch of his mouth, wet, with enough force that Lavellan occasionally feels his teeth in his lip. 

It feels like forever, it is probably not forever, but his voice raises higher and louder with each forceful thrust, legs trying to press together but not able to fight the ropes holding them in place, toes spreading and curling until he nearly wrenches something in his feet as he comes closer and closer and then just _comes._ All at once, with enormous force, the shock of it through his spine, his entire lower body, his cock's heated throbbing overwhelming every other sense as he spurts his seed well over his stomach all the way to his chest, balls tight to his body and his ass --

Bull groans in turn, and Lavellan has no earthly idea what this feels like for him but he's not stopping, practically a force of nature as he continues his heavy punishing rhythm, though his thrusts are starting to become a little more erratic, a little strained until --

Lavellan _feels_ it, the first gush of the qunari's orgasm inside of him, flooding him forcefully, followed by a few heavy thick spurts as Bull stills inside of him with a roar of pleasure. Lavellan is intimately familiar with the force and volume of the man's cum, and he is awash in a wave of euphoric pleasure knowing that all of that is now inside him, filling him to the brim, almost more than he can take. He's very still now, except for an occasional involuntary twitch or spasm, yielding to him. 

When Bull is finally done he pulls back, sliding his cock out of Lavellan's well-fucked hole, and leans back on his legs. Lavellan's gaze is somewhere vaguely up and to the left, eyes hooded and barely seeing, soft and warm and distant, but he can feel the wetness between his legs as Bull's cum dribbles back out of him and leaves a mess on the bed below. The chuckling groan he emits is one Lavellan has heard before. It was the same mixture of pleasure and relief as after that nest of drakes they'd cleaned out.

He shivers, hips occasionally jerking, otherwise quite still.

"Fuck, that was -- damn," Bull pants, and shifts his weight around so that the bed creaks. Lavellan had not been aware of the noise of the third party to this endeavour. They probably heard the wood protesting all the way to the herb garden. His vision is blurry, but he can see the general shape of Bull as the qunari grasps him by the jaw and turns his head towards him. "You all right, boss?" he murmurs, and Lavellan opens his mouth to answer and can't. He nods weakly instead. "Nothing hurts? Nothing's numb?" It's all he can do to shake his head, and Bull nods, pleased.

He's reaching down now, and with a few deft tugs releases the knots that hold the rope wrapped around Lavellan's arms and torso. He releases both legs one at a time and slowly guides the limb -- warm, and pliant -- down to the bed, his surprisingly dextrous hands gently massaging Lavellan's slightly strained thighs and calves. "Let's get you some water," Bull says, his voice still so low, so soft, so shockingly gentle and sweet. "And something to eat." 

Lavellan's hands are free now, so when Bull shifts as if to go he can reach for him weakly. "No," he croaks. "No, come back."

Bull turns his head to look at him and chuckles, then spreads himself out on the bed beside him, the mattress dipping in response to his considerably bulk. "All right, a minute or two. Because you were such a good boy." His hand rests on Lavellan's belly where there is a slight swell. He's not sure, but he thinks that's Bull's cum. He hopes it is. The thought alone is almost enough to get him hard again.

"Yes," Lavellan says, turning as limp as a rag doll to press to Bull's side, sighing in relief when one of the qunari's big arms wraps around him and pulls him tight to his chest. He wants him so badly. Not just parts of him, all of him, the feel of his arms around him, the soft swell of his thick belly, his heavy lumbering legs with one bad knee, the sound of his breath in his nostrils, the scent of his hot and slightly sweaty skin so unique amongst all these shemlen. "Yes," he says again, more urgently, needing Bull to know, to _understand_ , what he means.

Bull strokes his back from the small dip above his hips up to Lavellan's neck, fingers carding through his disheveled curls. "I know," he says. "I know. It's all right. You're safe here. I'm going to take care of you, all right?"

Lavellan sighs and presses his cheek to his chest. Yes. All right.

"Yes."


	4. taashath.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan has a nightmare. Bull spends the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to write something sweetly romantic and hinting at future plot (i promise there is a plot!!!) mostly fluffy.
> 
> note that this chapter touches on "consensual nonconsent" (i.e. pretending to say no but having a safe word that ACTUALLY means no) and edgeplay so if that's not your bag um. sorry

The Iron Bull is consistently impressed at how well Lavellan takes what he dishes out.

He'd been delicate at first -- well. Delicate by his standards, anyway. Testing the waters, making sure he hadn't misjudged him, because to go too fast too soon would ruin this and hurt him more than physically -- hurt him emotionally. And that could compromise his ability to lead. So he's been acting with caution, but every move he makes, Lavellan responds eagerly and begs for more.

Lately, he's thrown caution to the wind.

His rope patterns get more elaborate, intricate knotwork covering his body from throat to ankles. So easy to slip a finger through a loop and haul a limb where he wants it, to thread a rope through and tie it in place. He's had him suspended from the ceiling, arms tied behind his back, blindfolded, hung and spinning there for his pleasure; pressed into a wall, hands tied to a metal sconce and feet dangling inches off the ground; on the floor, leashed; hog-tied or spread-eagle; upside-down, right-side-up, forwards, backwards, sideways; bent over the balcony railing of his quarters with the threat of falling to his death hanging over his head. Not that The Iron Bull would ever let him fall, not in a million years, but the terror on Lavellan's face, how his heart had raced in his chest, how tight and still he'd been... yeah, worth it. And still he'd never said katoh -- not even when The Iron Bull reminded him of it, probed to see if he needed to say it. Not unusual for a submissive to forget their watchword, especially an amateur. 

Lavellan did not forget -- he just never used it. No matter how much agony The Iron Bull put him through and oh, he enjoyed putting him through sweet agony. 

His hands were first, that was his preference, but the belt came soon after -- never hard enough to leave a scar, he wasn't trying to mutilate him, but the angry red welts he left behind were too tempting not to kiss afterwards, and he enjoyed watching Lavellan sit tenderly in the days following and try to pretend he wasn't in pain, both of them knowing he could have used magic to heal them if he wanted. He'd replaced all the candles in Lavellan's quarters with a specific wax that would burn hot, but not hot enough to harm him when he poured it molten over his bare flesh and left it there to dry and harden. He brought toys he could insert inside of him and then leave there, had him wear them all day, commanded him to fuck himself on toys that were tapered to condition him to get used to taking something of significant size. Clothespins made decent makeshift clamps and he enjoyed using them to craft patterns over his flesh, lines and rows of them like wings over his back, or simply clamped over his nipples or pinching the delicate sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He'd pulled a knife and bade him kiss the flat of the blade before dragging the dulled edge over his skin, not cutting but only threatening so, making him sweat and whimper. He slapped his face, pulled his hair, choked him, spanked him, ran his nails down his flesh hard enough to leave red furrows behind, pinched, bit, and all the while Lavellan panted and moaned and begged for him in that sweet little Dalish lilt.

And screamed. Lucky they were three stories up in a castle on a mountain. Any sound that escaped his open windows was simply carried away by the wind. 

Still, he'd had the door soundproofed.

His tears, his whimpers, the way he begged -- both for more, but also for it to stop... how he screamed in pleasure and pain, took it over and over until he lost himself to it, soft and yielding to him... and how afterwards The Iron Bull would hold him and pull him back gently into himself through the shuddering tears. He'd never experienced that emotion himself, personally, but he'd seen it in plenty of partners he'd done this to in the past, how they went to a place so deeply inside of themself that they floated adrift, anchored to their bodies only by him. It brings him great pleasure to bring Lavellan there, to drain every last worry or concern from him, until he is no longer the Inquisitor, or the Herald, or anything else, just a person floating through space and time. To unravel him and put him back together afterwards, tender and raw. 

They'd had a long talk about his limits. The Iron Bull had had to push -- Lavellan had been embarrassed, not by sex itself, but by his inexperience. He worried The Iron Bull would lose interest if he didn't know what he was doing; he had assured Lavellan that was not the case. He was very much interested. (And the way Lavellan sucked his cock, well. Some people were just naturally skilled.) And he'd had to be very explicit, but he'd gotten it out of him eventually -- what he wants to do, what he absolutely does not want to do, and the vast swathe of area in between where he said he was not sure but was willing to try.

He'd been enjoying discovering the things Lavellan liked best. He liked being on his knees, he liked being spanked, loved being deprived of his senses -- blindfolded, deafened, gagged. He loved it when The Iron Bull tore his clothes from his body, pinned him down, grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. He loved being bitten, slapped in the face. He was shy about it, but The Iron Bull could tell how he wanted to play at resisting -- and pushed him towards it, encouraged it at Lavellan's pace, so that he always still knew he was safe. For his part, The Iron Bull was fond of having him on his back. The Iron Bull preferred to keep it simple -- hands and rope; he loved the soft creak of a rope pulled tight, loved the sting on his palm when he'd spanked Lavellan raw, loved the way the elf squirmed and mewled in tearful humiliation, adored how he looked trussed and bound. Especially with his arms tied tightly to his sides, damsel-style, with his legs free so The Iron Bull could throw them over his shoulders and tongue-fuck him until he wept.

He needed that. Lavellan doesn't have the luxury of speaking his mind, not really, which means all that raw emotion just gets bottled up in there. No outlet for it aside from battle, and Lavellan isn't like him; he gets no joy out of killing others, being the biggest and baddest bitch on the field. 

And The Iron Bull, well. It's been a long, long time since he's had a partner so responsive and eager. He'd been right, of course; Lavellan had just been waiting for someone to treat him right, to give him what he craved -- to take the reigns and coax his total submission from him with a firm hand, to give him permission to be himself: obedient. Sweet. Loyal.

So, yeah. He's been enjoying it. To say the least.

He's needed this too, he realises -- he has plenty of ways to blow off steam, but this one is a bit... unique, and it's rare to find a partner able to keep up with him. He's pleasantly surprised, and grateful, even, for the gift Lavellan gives him every time he submits to his will, takes what he has to dish out. Says _thank you_ and asks for more.

And at first he'd left afterwards, leaving him to rest alone in his quarters, but this time... this time Lavellan's passed out in his arms, his face soft and relaxed, and he looks so damn beautiful that he's not able to resist the temptation to stay this time, to hold him in his arms and enjoy how tiny he is, dark and sweet. The Iron Bull feels like a mountain in comparison, it's intoxicating. 

He loves that, that... objectification. More beast than man, a mindless implement of destruction. Like a dragon. 

It's simpler to be a thing. But it's harder to be a thing outside of the Qun, which makes it more important to throw himself into the role. A thing can be contained. Controlled.

Without the Qun, the Inquisitor is what he relies on to contain him now. To keep the snarling red madness that he knows is out there at bay. He touches his face, tells him fiercely _You're a good man, Bull,_ spits on the ground and says _If they don't see that then it's their loss,_ defends him to his allies, gets spitting-cat angry when people spout their usual racist bullshit about the 'ox-men.' Trusts him implicitly, though he really shouldn't. Would kill for him, if he had to. And has had to.

Lavellan is so convinced of his goodness, his capacity for softness, gentleness. The Iron Bull's not sure whether or not to believe him; Lavellan's never seen qunari at their worst. Never seen a real Tal-Vashoth at work, the utter brutality, the madness of them.

But he's magic, brimming to the teeth with it. Does he just know? Can he see into his head? Like Cole, that demon kid.

He hopes not. 

He holds him and sleeps with him, Lavellan dead to the world -- and shit, how good does it feel to have him trust him so deeply he's able to sleep so soundly in his arms -- and The Iron Bull merely dozing out of habit. He never sleeps deeply, always aware of the potential for ambush. Lavellan's never really slept in this bed, he gathered, preferring the floor, particularly the balcony outside where he builds a little nest of blankets and furs, but he's deeply asleep draped over his chest with his head under The Iron Bull's collarbone, his mouth slightly parted as he breathes in deeply and evenly. It's _damn_ good. So much so that even the discomfort in his bum knee from the position his legs are in isn't enough incentive to get him to move a muscle. His throat is deliciously mangled, bruised and raw, and he's going to have to heal that to keep anyone from asking some awkward questions (-- awkward for them, anyway, for The Iron Bull it's a damn good time watching Lavellan squirm and stammer out some excuse) but not just yet. He runs his callused fingertips along that slight bare back, enjoys the contrast when he runs over a welt and makes the elf stir. And he dozes, content. He could get used to this. Should spend the night more often.

... Lavellan's first moan wakes him instantly.

He goes from sleep to wakefulness in a second, sharply aware of the room around him, of every exit and every entrance. Anywhere a threat might be -- he's got to be, or else he'd be dead by now, throat cut in his sleep. There's nothing but him and the open window and Lavellan, twitching, brows pushed together to create a thin line vertically between them. His mouth is pulled back tightly and he twitches again, grunts.

Dreaming, The Iron Bull realises. Might be harmless. He waits to see if it goes away on its own.

It does not.

Lavellan groans, hand curling loosely into a fist and his face contorting into a grimace. His left hand sparks once, then begins to glow with a creepy-ass green light. The Iron Bull is looking at that, put off by the obvious magic -- Fade crap, _demon_ crap -- when Lavellan digs his nails into his chest and screams the first time.

Well, that does it.

He grabs him by the shoulder and shakes gently. "Boss," he says, his voice low, even, calm. Qunari have a different relationship to dreams than elves and humans, but there's an old tama's tale about not waking someone up from a nightmare. He hopes it's not true. "Boss, wake up." 

Lavellan's face twists in pain and he writhes, thrashing. " _Boss,_ " he says again, but Lavellan is not hearing him.

He bolts upright, his eyes suddenly wide, all whites, shining bright green in the darkness of the room where his eyes catch the reflection of moonlight and throw it back. Eyes open but unseeing, he screams, claws at the bed, his hand a burst of bright green light, angry and sparking like a storm. It lights up the room, sends everything into burning verdant relief.

The Iron Bull grabs him again and hauls him in close, holds his hands to keep him from clawing at himself. " _Boss,_ " he repeats, and grits his teeth, and then calls his name. His real name.

Lavellan screams again, not seeing him, not seeing anything, apparently. The Iron Bull can't tell if this is Fade crap or normal mindfuck crap, and doesn't care. It has to stop. He shakes him, careful not to hurt him, digs his fingers into his arms and hisses his name. Lavellan's head snaps around to stare directly at him, eyes distant. He's not seeing him, not really.

"I saw it," he cries, trembling, ashen, his face drawn back and haggard, eyes wild. " _I saw it._ "

"What? You saw what?" He's watching his face intently, trying to determine if he's truly awake or still dreaming, and sees the slow dawning awareness cross his features. He's awake _now_ , and his eyes dart around the room, hyper-aware, heart hammering in his chest so fast The Iron Bull is half-afraid it's going to fly out of his throat.

Realising where he is -- Skyhold, in his own quarters -- he goes still, shaking, in his arms. He's trembling so hard The Iron Bull can hear his skull rattling around.

"What did you see?" he asks again, and Lavellan looks at him now, brows knit together in confusion.

"What?"

The Iron Bull leans back. "You said you saw 'it,'" he clarifies. "What did you see?"

Lavellan jerks and glances around wildly once again. He's shaking so hard The Iron Bull has to hold him tightly enough to feel his ribs creak. He can feel but not see the elf's mouth open and close compulsively. "I..." His lips are dry, cracked. "I don't remember. I don't -- I don't remember. I can't --"

"Shh." He pulls him in tightly and presses his chin to the crown of his head. "Shh, it's okay. You're okay. I've got you, boss. It's over, you're safe. You don't have to talk about it yet." 

He holds him until Lavellan stops trembling, strokes his hair, murmurs in his ear -- nothing specific, just... words. It's the tone that matters: gentle and soft, hands tender over his head, his neck, his aching, bruised, welted back. 

Lavellan slowly stills, his eyes closing though he's trying to fight it. Eventually, he goes back to sleep.

The Iron Bull holds him all through the night. Eye open. Waiting. Watching.

* * *

When Lavellan wakes, it's not the quick jerk he's become accustomed to, but in slow degrees. He's aware first of the scent of another body next to his, a warm solid hunk of... something under him, heat pressed to his cheek. The light is bright enough that he can feel it behind his eyes, and he twitches, slowly blinking open against that obnoxious invasion.

He sees a vast swathe of greyness first, broken up here or there with darker slashes. He looks up, already knowing whose face he is going to see.

Bull. Bull's still here.

He blinks blearily, his eyes feeling crusty, aware that he is probably at his second least attractive right now. (The first would definitely be that time he had to close a rift that had opened buried about two feet deep in mud in the Fallow Mire. After accidentally blowing up a corpse.) Bull's handsome face turns to look down at him, extra scruffy around the chin and cheeks, and he smiles at him, actually smiles at him.

"You stayed." Lavellan is dismayed to find his voice comes out as a hoarse croak.

"Yeah." Bull shifts to wrap his arm more firmly around him, his hand, the one with all the mangled fingers, sliding up his back in slow, gentle strokes. He keeps moving the position of one of his legs and Lavellan worries his knee is bothering him again. "Hope that's not a problem."

"It's not a problem." Lavellan shifts as well, finding his weight resting on top of him, draped over his broad chest and the soft swell of his belly. Which he knows Bull is self-conscious of, his age having started to catch up to him visibly in areas beginning to swell or sag, but Lavellan loves it. He's surprisingly soft. He rests his hand over that belly, is rewarded by Bull's grunt. He is so grateful, in this moment, for his presence. "You can stay," he says, voice small. "I mean, if you want."

Bull's fingers trail up his spine over his back and he rests his palm flatly over Lavellan's head. He pulls his hand back, forcing him to tilt his head up to look at him, to see his face, sleepy and soft. "Yeah," he says. "I'd like to."

Lavellan smiles, sudden and bright, and ducks his head. "Mm." He's pretty sure he can attribute the dead sleep he just had to Bull's presence. "I -- really like -- I mean, I really like spending time with you." He feels like the world's biggest idiot saying as much, like a fumbling adolescent boy dropping the pelt of a freshly-slaughtered wolf at the feet of his crush. Actually, would Bull like a wolf pelt? Would he find that sexy?

Dragon pelt? But they're too big to fight on his own. They'd fought one together and Bull had nearly killed him with his gods-be-cursed qunari rat poison afterwards, but it had to be personal. Maybe one of the little ones?

He sighs in pleasure as Bull runs his mangled hand over his back, two stumps and two intact fingers gently pressing into his skin and massaging, relieving some of the tension he carries there. "I know. I'm kind of fond of you too." His knuckles press into the well of Lavellan's spine and drag up and down, feeling out the faint bump of vertebrae. "How's that work for Dalish, anyway? Those clans of yours are pretty small. Don't you all get kind of... related to each other?"

Lavellan snorts, grateful for the distraction. "Mm. Most everyone in the clan is your sibling or first cousin or second cousin. If you intermarry too closely together too long you get weird babies. As I'm sure you know. The qunari seem to have figured that one out." Bull chuckles again, offers a faint hum of assent, and for a moment there's another stolen shared moment between them built on the foundation of neither of them being human. "So usually the hahren makes a match for you. You go meet some girl, and if you like each other and both clans agree, then that's your mate."

"And if you don't like each other?"

Lavellan cranes his neck to look up at him. "Then you don't bond with each other. It's shemlen and dwarven nobles who marry to have the right name. All we care about is producing happy elfy babies who grow up into happy elfy productive adults, and don't have weird diseases from muddled blood."

"So Dalish don't have sex for love either?"

Lavellan's eyes widen to the size of plates. "Who said we don't love each other? My parents had an arranged match and they loved each other fiercely. When my father died, my mother was sick with grief for years."

Bull reaches out and tweaks his nose. "Didn't know that about you."

"Well, now you do. Anyway. It's just a different kind of love. You've got your loves that burn fast and hot from the start, and ones that you build together, slowly, carefully, like an aravel. The first one makes for better ballads. The second one tends to last longer."

"Huh. But you don't just, you know." Bull waggles his eyebrows. The one over the missing eye's always a little weird. "Just fuck?"

Face reddening slightly, Lavellan buries his head against Bull's chest. "Yeah," he says finally. "We do. But you're not supposed to. It's important to keep track of who's related to who. And, you know... cousins..." He clears his throat. "We, um, all collectively just pretend it doesn't happen. This is weird, Bull. This is a weird topic, why are we talking about this."

He feels Bull stroke him, then give an affectionate gentle pinch to his side. "Just curious. Wondering how it works."

"Mmm." Pad sighs and settles over him, trailing his fingers over Bull's scarred silvery skin. He's quiet for what feels like a very long time, but not relaxing... in fact, he feels more nervous over time, trying to gather up the courage to ask what he wants to ask. It's easier to just... fling it out there, so he does, finally, blurting out, "How do qunari show they're serious about someone?"

He's not looking at him, so he's not sure if Bull is looking at _him_ , what his expression is. "They don't," Bull says. "We don't have sex for love." Bull sighs heavily, a deep rumble in his chest, and sits up so that his back is pressed to the headboard behind him. Lavellan settles neatly on top of him, draped across his belly so that every breath raises and lowers him with it. "But there is this old tradition -- you take a dragon's tooth, split it in two, and then you each wear it. So that no matter how far apart you are, you're always together."

"That's... much more romantic than I was expecting, honestly." Lavellan cranes his neck to peer up at him, mock-suspicion on his face. "You're _sure_ qunari don't do romance?"

Bull chuckles again, and Lavellan loves the way it rolls all through his body. "Oh, no, it exists. There's no force in this world that can stop people from loving each other. We just call it something else. Pretend it's not the same. The Qun's a lot of pretending, when it comes down to it."

"So is the Chantry, but you'll never hear them say it. And to be fair... I don't know. I suppose we pay a lot of lip service to the Creators." 

It was such an idle comment that he expected the conversation to pass right over it, so Lavellan is quite surprised when Bull puts his hand to the small of his back and says, "Tell me about them."

Lavellan smiles, broad and soft as a candle flame, and sits up, draped on top of him on his belly. No one's ever asked before. "Well, there's Elgar'nan, the All-Father, our god of vengeance and the sun. And Mythal, his mate, the Great Mother, goddess of justice and the moon. Long ago, the sun grew curious of the land it had grown to love from afar, and came close to it; where they touched, Elgar'nan was born. The land brought him many great gifts, until the sun grew jealous and burned hotter and hotter until it started to burn everything away. The scorched cracked earth filled with the land's tears when she wept from the pain of it. Elgar'nan flew into the sky and wrestled his father, and won."

"My kinda guy, then."

"Oh, you'd fight the sun?" Lavellan raises both eyebrows nearly up to his hairline.

"Fuck yeah, I'd fight the sun." Bull reaches his arm out and flexes, his thick bicep bulging in his arm until Lavellan laughs. "You see these cannons?"

Lavellan offers an affectionate slap to the shoulder, grinning as he turns his head back down. "Their children were Falon'din and Dirthamen, the gods of death and secrets, and June and Sylaise, gods of crafts and the hearth, and Andruil, goddess of the hunt. Uh, or they may not actually be their literal children. It's not clear."

"That's seven. Thought there were eight."

"Right. Ghilan'nain was elevated to godhood by Andruil, who loved her. She made many great and terrible beasts, and was bade to kill them all eventually, except the halla, whom she loved. Now she's the mother of all halla, and we pray to her to keep our herds safe. There's another story too, though." 

"So your people do pray to them? Like humans pray to Andraste?" 

Lavellan screws up his face. "Sort of, I suppose, except we don't expect an answer, or intervention. We say the words -- blessed June, Mythal's mercy -- but they're hollow. We thank Sylaise for a good forage but know her hand was not really involved. Our gods have not heard our prayers since before the fall of Arlathan. Some say there was a great and terrible war between them and the Forgotten Ones, and Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf, who walked among them both as a brother, talked them both into retreating to their lands in a truce -- the Creators to the Beyond -- erm, the Fade -- and the Forgotten Ones to the Abyss. But he had tricked them both and used his dark magic to lock them all away, so that only he would remain in this world." Lavellan sighs and puts his chin on Bull's chest directly between his pecs, his eyes wandering, gazing out the open balcony windows to his left. It's warm in the bed, between their share of body heat and the subtle warming magic he uses, and Bull, who's never been a huge fan of magic, has never complained. "But honestly, that could just be a story we tell ourselves to feel better. Some say they just... abandoned us. That they'll only return once we've learned to be elves again." 

Bull grasps him by the chin again, but does not maneuver his head; instead he runs his thumb over Lavellan's cheek, ghosts over his nose. "Is that why your people do this?"

"The vallaslin honour our gods," Lavellan says. No one's ever asked about that, either. He feels... something. A whole lot of something. Surprised pleasure, great tenderness, for Bull to be so willing to speak to him intimately. To care. "...but they also proclaim our independence from humans. We mark our faces so they cannot be hidden or ignored, and they can't be burnt or scratched or cut off without the evidence being obvious. When shems look at me they can't pretend I am human. It's the first thing they see when they look at me. That's what I wanted." 

This time Bull does maneuver his hand, grasping him by the cheek with both of his massive hands and turning Lavellan's head to look up at him. He gazes him directly in the face, his eye sweeping over the permanently-inked lines in his face; Lavellan can trace the outline of them by the way his eyes move over his features. He looks at his nose, lingers on his lips, sweeps over his chin to skim his jaw and cheekbones and finally back up to his eyes again, his one good eye holding both of Lavellan's.

"They're beautiful," Bull murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble. "You're so damn beautiful."

Lavellan's heart hurts with the force of what those words do to him. Something grips and squeezes at his heart, his eyes briefly wet, his stomach doing the most distracting acrobatics. The raw tenderness he feels, the way Bull says it so that he actually believes it, even like this, hair mussed, eyes crusty and reddened he's sure, covered in his bruises and welts --

His head tilts up before he's even realised he's doing it, and then his lips are pressed to Bull's much thinner ones -- softly, gently. The stubble on the qunari's chin and jaw scratches and tickles at his face, that softly heated spicy scent to his skin filling his nose, his skin so rough even on the face from a lifetime of battlescars. His hands so rough, but they hold him like he's precious, made of glass and filled with jewels. Bull's thumb strokes along his cheek and jaw and he assumes control of the kiss after the space of a few heartbeats, his other hand curling over Lavellan's back to fist into his hair and hold his head in place. And Lavellan sighs into his mouth and goes limp all at once -- pliant and loose, there for him to do with as he would like.

He trusts him absolutely.

Bull takes him on his belly bent over, his hand in his hair pressing his face into the mattress below, cheek to bed, the other arm around his waist to hold him in place. It's slower, and softer, but no less pleasant -- he does not always need to tie or hit to know that Lavellan is his, how their desires line up when it comes to who controls whom. Who serves whom. He murmurs in Qunlat in Lavellan's ear, words he doesn't understand except for the underlying meaning to them, the slow burn behind them. He is in no hurry to rush Lavellan's climax and does not even put a hand on his cock -- does not need to because Lavellan comes there on his own time, knowing he is protected by Bull's presence, safe in his embrace. Bull comes in him by coincidence, not needing it necessarily, and sits there for a while -- though when he goes to pull out Lavellan moans in protest, "No -- stay, please, just a little longer..." 

Soon he will have to get up and clean up and get dressed, and heal some of these more dramatic injuries to avoid the awkward questions that tend to come with them -- he'll have to wear shem clothes and suck up to shems who call him knife-ear and rabbit and pretend to support this shem religion that has been used time and time again to crush and subjugate his people and plant this flat of this shem religion in regions that should have always belonged to the People -- but there's none of that here. Just him, Lavellan, a person, and Bull, a person, too.

Just people.


	5. perspective.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you took him right up the Dales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features some daddy kink. just a warning in advance.
> 
> i wrote all 5,000 words of this in one sitting without proofreading any of it, now it is 5 am and i am exhausted good night sorry for the typos and such

Lavellan's heart leaps into his throat then catapults back down into his stomach as he jumps about three feet in the air, hackles raised like an angry cat, and spins around so fast a bright flash of wispy blue light streaks the air around him.

Bull is standing there, mangled hand raised, an amused expression in his eye.

"Fenedhis lasa!" Lavellan exclaims. His voice carries a little too loudly in the war room, bounces off the high ceiling. He's knocked a marker off the map and sees now that it went rattling halfway across the room. "How are you a thousand feet tall and don't make any blighted *noise*?"

Bull chuckles, full-throated, rumbling from his chest to his stomach. "Well --"

"Yes," Lavellan interrupts, eyes narrowed. "'Ben-hassrath training, remember?'" he says, voice lowered a strangled octave to imitate his voice, and Bull reaches out menacingly as if to grab him by the throat and shake but instead ruffles his hair, which he knows Lavellan hates(-loves).

"Are you /sassing/ me?" he demands. 

Lavellan's face flushes -- he knows perfectly well that Bull would never punish him for speaking his mind... outside of a scene, anyway -- but the instinct to respect his authority is there. And gives him a little thrill in the pit of his stomach as it always does when he thinks about submitting to his will.

"It's like you think we're all going to forget. Trust me, we won't forget." Lavellan reaches out and gives him a nudge on the bicep. He's close, which is part of what startled him so much. Those long ears aren't just for show -- his hearing is good, better than most -- but Bull routinely manages to sneak up behind him almost the way Cole does. 

Now there's a terrifying thought. The Iron Bull able to teleport.

He leans forward until he's pressed up to Bull's chest. "I'm teasing you."

"It's too late. I'm wounded." Bull's hands are on his waist, thumbs sliding underneath the well-worn linen shirt he's wearing to stroke gently over his belly, and -- mm, that's nice. 

Lavellan presses his cheek to his chest, breathing in deeply, sighing. He's fond of Bull's shirt-allergy, despite the ever-present chill of Skyhold. Especially here, where there's no fireplace. "Good thing I'm a healer. Should I kiss it and make it better? Your pride?" They're taking a risk doing this here so publicly, though he notes Bull has closed the heavy doors behind him -- still, Cassandra is prone to bursting in mid-rant without checking if it's already occupied. 

It's not exactly a private room.

Bull wraps those giant heavy arms around him and hoists him up until Lavellan's feet dangle off the ground, Bull's pointed chin pressed to the top of his head as he breathes in deeply the scent of him, nostrils flared. Lavellan squeaks -- a noise he'd never been aware of making until he noticed the effect it has on him -- but relaxes into the hold. He loves this, the way Bull grips him tight. Safe. He's always safe with him.

"I can think of something you can kiss," Bull murmurs, and Lavellan laughs nervously. It approaches an embarrassing giggle.

"I'm almost done with that rune you asked for," he says, voice so low as to be husky. "It's in my room." Bull's had this idea -- making him punish himself with a rune attuned to storm magic, and has had great fun helping him... experiment with the level of intensity. And after all the brooding he's done over the war table -- how long has he been out here, anyway? His back hurts -- he's very eager for a reprieve. His thoughts drift naturally towards being slung over his shoulder and carried four steps at a time towards his quarters.

Bull steps forward instead, forcing him to step back until his hip collides -- gently, very gently -- with the heavy carved-tree table behind him. His heart starts fluttering like a nervous bird.

"I was thinking," Bull says, one of his hands, the one with all the mangled fingers, sliding around until the tips of his two remaining fingers press into the well of Lavellan's back, massaging little circles. "Hmm. You're tense. Am I making you nervous, boss?"

Lavellan shivers, wanting to press tightly into his fingers. He wants -- and it's a powerful wanting, the way he always feels when Bull touches him, an overwhelming desire for more -- for him to dig those fingers in, to feel where the joints of the severed fingers sink into his flesh. "Nervous is not the word I would use," he says, though his eyes keep sliding towards the (blessedly closed) door.

"Hmm. Good to know." Bull's hand flattens again over his side, fingers splayed over his waist, his hands so big they cover half his torso. "Anyway. So I was thinking." Bull has to lift him by the hips and dip low to nibble his teeth along Lavellan's long ear, and his body is bent at such an angle that Lavellan knows it's not great for his back. He does his best to alleviate it by stretching up as far as he can like a snake rising from a basket. 

Bull's intact hand slides down his thigh towards the back, grasps him just under his ass, and hoists him up bodily until Lavellan finds himself seated on the edge of the table. He's confused for a minute, and Bull is leaning forward, forcing him back until he's at an angle to the table below him.

"Every time you come in this room you come out of it again a pile of knots," Bull is saying. His thigh slides between Lavellan's knees and jerks, kicking them apart, and he slides his hip in there before Lavellan can close them again. His head has dipped, thin lips trailing the vein in Lavellan's neck with just the suggestion of his sharp teeth, making him shiver. "I see you so much as glance in the direction of this hallway and you get all... tense." His teeth nip at Lavellan's jaw, tongue darting out to lap at the spot he just bit, hands squeezing around his waist hard enough for him to feel it. There's a throb between his legs, very distracting. "Now, I don't like tense. I like relaxed. I like a nice, calm boy." 

He slides that hand around, surprisingly dextrous, the flat of his palm along Lavellan's belly and pushing slowly, gently, forcing him further down as he hovers over him. Lavellan groans, eyes closing, his hands reached out to grip around Bull's neck to keep himself from just toppling onto his back. Bull is biting a trail along his jaw to his ear, grabbing the lobe and pulling as Lavellan's heart pounds against his hand.

"What do you say we relieve some of that tension," he growls. 

"Ah --" His toes curl, and Bull's other arm sweeps behind him, sending carved wooden markers scattering over the table and floor. Those were important, probably. Fuck 'em. But still, he's so distracted by the thundering presence of that closed door. Cullen could walk right through those, face buried in a report. Josephine's only a hallway away, she could slip in in search of a document she left behind. Leliana is --

"We can't," he says again, but he's squirming, wriggling like a caught fish underneath him, unable to stop the slow gentle roll of his hips into Bull's leg. "Bull --"

Bull's hand snaps up quick as a wyvern and grips him by the jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks. Lavellan is half-hard so suddenly it hurts, breath hitched, heart hammering. They're playing now. He knows this game.

"Ser," he corrects himself. 

Bull trusts that he knows when they're playing, now. His hand tightens.

Lavellan's voice is a whisper so quiet it's nearly swallowed up by the negative space of the room.

"Daddy."

Bull lets go of him too quickly, and if Lavellan weren't holding on to him he would have collapsed onto the war table. He's still close to him, still has contact with him but he's pulled back enough that Lavellan could slip out of his arms and off the table if he really wanted to. There is no threat of force keeping him here now. The door is a choice. "What's your watch word?" he says, his voice surprisingly soft for the shape of him.

Lavellan's eyes close, brows knit together, pushed up to try to press tightly into him, wanting to close the gap between them again. His hands curl around Bull's massive neck. He would need four hands for his fingers to wrap around and touch. "My watch word is katoh." It makes him so impatient, these interruptions, but it's important to Bull so it's important to him. Still. He spreads his legs, wraps his thighs around his broad hips. He intended to make a word but instead what comes out is a whimper of need, and he clings to him as Bull lowers him inch by inch onto the table until he's flattened onto his back, pinned there by his hands.

"You know the best way to condition a subject?" Bull murmurs as his hands rub up and down Lavellan's body, from hip to chest. He lets the force hitch Lavellan's shirt all the way up, exposing a long line of slender belly. It's freezing in here, he sucks in his gut. "Positive reinforcement. They do what you want... you give 'em a reward. You punish 'em, they just learn to avoid it. They don't like something... you make 'em learn to associate it with something they want." Bull's head dips, those teeth catching Lavellan's skin around the dip of his belly button, scrape up to his ribs. "Something they need."

Lavellan's erection is straining the ties that hold his trousers to his body. He's aware of the shape of it outlined so clearly, and it's a little embarrassing that the evidence of his arousal is so obvious. 

"You're not getting that cock into me out here," Lavellan breathes, though his stomach tightens at the thought of it. Other parts of him tighten, too. Fuck.

"Hmm. I gotta start carrying around oil. You're too fucking tight, boss." He leans back, positions Lavellan's legs around him and hauls him down the war table so he can grind against that ass. "Maybe I should make it fit."

"Fuck." Lavellan breathes hard, belly straining, his ribs standing out plainly at this angle. The door is still right there and he's tense with the fear that someone might walk in right in the middle of this, get an eyeful of him in a way he definitely does not want them to, and furthermore he'd have to look them in the eye every single time he ever walked through those doors again --

He wriggles, heaving in a breath. Bull is hard, at least halfway anyway; he can feel the pressure of that cock up against him. It's hard to keep in his head exactly how _big_ he is -- even if he were just proportional to the rest of him, he's got a foot on everyone else in the Inquisition and almost two feet over Lavellan... just his fingers are almost too much for him to take. And Bull is reaching down, undoing the laces around his trousers, and cocking his head as he glances down at Lavellan's spread legs.

His hands grip the waistband and jerk. The trousers tear.

Lavellan cries out too loudly, reaches up to clamp his teeth around his hand to muffle the sound, his face flushed and heart pounding. He's going to tear him out of these clothes and leave him naked and at his mercy in a very public space. A very public space he's in and out of many times a day.

He jerks again as Bull pulls and rips those trousers right off of him, yanking them the rest of the way off his legs. Lavellan's erection strains so hard it's nearly flat against his belly, betraying his obvious eagerness for him in spite of his fear of the setting.

"Scared, little boy?" Bull growls. His left hand grips Lavellan's leg and squeezes, so big his fingertips almost touch. 

He will never be able to look anyone in the eye again if he's caught like this.

Lavellan whines, reaches up to try to pull his shirt down to cover his cock, his lip caught between his teeth. "Someone's going to see," he says, trying to keep his voice down, though those doors are heavy enough to block any sound out unless he screams. But that also means he won't hear anyone else coming. 

They might hear him coming.

"Would that be the worst thing?" Bull is asking, hand catching both of Lavellan's wrists and hauling them over his head, forcing him to relinquish his hold on his shirt and leaving him exposed below the waist. He slams both wrists into the table, pressed to the map -- Lavellan imagines them to be somewhere around Nevarra -- and rakes the remaining nails of his other hand down his chest, skips his groin, and slides up under him through the cleft of his ass, making him moan. "Because from where I'm looking, if anyone else saw you I don't know if they could keep their hands off you. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Lavellan pants and grinds into that hand, urging him to slip a finger or his thumb inside of him, groaning when all Bull does is tease at his taint with the thick pad of his thumb. "Dirty boy. Greedy. I wanna see that someday. Just you and a line of cocks. You know what people would pay just for a chance to eat your ass?" 

Lavellan's face is so hot he's certain Bull can feel it from all the way up there. His head turns to the side, but there's nowhere he can hide from him and Bull knows it, enjoys watching him squirm. Bull's erection is straining his trousers, and given his are big and loose enough to fit the entirety of the Antivan Circus in there, that's a feat. 

"I don't -- I -- I couldn't, I..." He has no idea what to say to that. He has no idea why his cock is so hard.

"I'd have you tied, of course. No getting away. On your back, legs up in a sling. Head held in place. Something to hide your face. Blindfolded, of course... so you couldn't tell if it was someone new or someone coming back for seconds." His hand pulls away and Lavellan bucks his hips with a whine.

Bull sticks his thumb in his mouth and when he brings it back, pressed against his hole it's sopping wet and slick with his spit. Lavellan's mouth drops open, a shuddering moan on his lips as he twists desperately against that digit.

"Tell me what you'd do," the qunari demands, thumb threatening his hole but not quite penetrating him.

His throat is dry; what he _needs_ is Bull's fingers inside of him, fearing that every minute they wait means the risk of discovery is greater. But he won't get it until he does what he's told, he knows, and a wash of heat floods him from the tip of his ears to his toes. It's embarrassing to say this stuff out loud, to give voice to fantasies he knows would shock people if they only knew. Bull knows he's not used to it.

"I'd..." He swallows, trying to order this scenario in his mind. Really imagine it. Live it. He closes his eyes and exhales. "I'd lay still for you. So still. You'd tie my legs first, then my hands. At the wrists. That rope harness you like. I couldn't see, but I'd hear them come in. There'd be so many I wouldn't be able to get a clear count. I'd --" His breath hitches as Bull's thumb presses at his hole. "I'd open my mouth for the first one. It'd be big. Not... not as big as yours, fuck. Oh, fuck. I'd -- I'd suck his cock. My mouth all wet. The next one with his cock against my... against my arse, and he'd -- struggle to get it in. You -- ah, ahn -- you know how tight I am, I... ah --"

His hips roll and stomach flips as Bull's thumb presses harder and slips just the tip into him, stretching him uncomfortably around his fat digit. "Yes, daddy," he breathes. "Like that. That tight. And he'd fuck me and he'd cum in me. I'd take all of it. Both holes. Every drop. Over and over. Like a -- ahn, fuck, Creators, Bull!" His whole body writhes as Bull's whole thumb thrusts deeply into him until it presses right up against that little spot inside of him that always makes his dick throb.

"Like a 'Creators, Bull'?" he rumbles, amused. Lavellan can't see his face but he can feel the air disturbed between them from his grin.

"Like a good boy," he finishes, slightly choked. He could choke _him_ for teasing him like that. One of these days he's going to be on top.

Yeah, right.

Bull rolls his thumb inside of him and Lavellan moans so loudly he feels himself spontaneously petrify for a second with the thought that someone almost certainly heard it. It occurs to him how absurd it is that the Iron Bull is fingering him on the war table. What if he gets cum on it? How is he going to explain that to Cullen?

" _Please,_ " he whines. "Oh, please. Please."

"Love it when you beg," Bull grunts, rubbing his thumb _right_ up against him until the head of Lavellan's cock is soaked in his copious precum. Bull likes him wet. "Love to see you fucked so full you couldn't even see your feet. We're gonna play with a plug one of these days, you know. I wanna see how full I can get you." 

Lavellan's cock twitches, throbs. _Fuck._ Fuck, he wants Bull to come in him over and over and over and not let a single drop escape until he can't _fit_ anymore. It's easy to lose himself to the fantasy of submitting to any number of men Bull would want to fuck him anywhere and he shudders, mewls, rocks into his hand. He opens his mouth to beg more -- yes, please, more, harder, faster, bigger -- but like he's read his mind Bull is pulling back and flipping him over with one hand. Lavellan lies on his belly, and when he opens his mouth he can see the vast expanse of a map of Thedas spread out under him, wood markers scattered here or there in bizarre positions. He hopes he remembers where they were all supposed to go. Maybe he can claim a bird flew in through the windows Cassandra keeps leaving open --

He barely cuts off the shriek of surprised pleasure when Bull's tongue probes between his cheeks at his hole, the tip stroking the sensitive muscle there. His hard cock is pressed right up against the map. Oh, he's definitely going to get cum on it. Shit.

"Ahh --" He hisses in a breath as Bull strokes the flat of his tongue over him from his balls over his hole all the way up his ass. His fingers curl and clench as Bull laps and strokes in turn, swirling his tongue and concentrating largely on Lavellan's tight little hole. His mouth is wet, watering, and Lavellan realises with a start that he does intend to fuck him here. His face flushes deeply, and though he's protested he still spreads his legs a little wider, rocking back into his mouth with a low moan.

He knows better than to touch himself, keeps his hands curled over the table as he rides out Bull's tongue-fucking. He hisses and sighs as the tip of his tongue thrusts inside of him, darting in and out in a teasing imitation of the kind of rough fucking he _actually_ wants. His cock throbs again and releases another glob of precum and all he can think is -- "Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck we're -- fuck I'm going to ruin the map, daddy, I'm going to make a mess-- f--uck, ahn --" 

"No coming," Bull growls, pulled back enough to press a messy wet kiss on either side of Lavellan's pert little ass. His slaps him once on the right cheek and Lavellan yelps and squirms. They do _not_ have time for one of Bull's agonizing spanking sessions here. "Wait for permission." Plus, someone would definitely hear Lavellan's caterwauling. 

"Yes, ser," he pants. His knees attempt to press together when Bull grasps each cheek and spreads them wide, head leaned back so he can spit a thick glob right over the hole and rub it in with his thumb. The slick wetness feels incredible and he shivers in pleasure as Bull grinds it inside of him. 

Fuck he wants so badly for Bull to pound him like he hates him.

He shoves his fist into his mouth to hide his squeal when Bull thrusts first one thumb, then the other into him, stretching him wide open, face far enough away that he can watch as Lavellan's sweet hole spreads for him. Lavellan sinks his teeth into his lip and moans, shuddering, as Bull begins to stroke and thrust and twist those digits inside of him until Lavellan is panting. 

"Oh, please," he mewls, muffled around the hand he keeps biting down on. "Please. Please. Daddy, please. Fuck me. Please fuck me. I need -- I need it. Fuck, yes. Ah, daddy, put it in, _please._ " He drops his hand to let his voice carry even though it embarrasses him because that's exactly what Bull wants -- for Lavellan's need to get fucked by him to supersede his self-conscious anxieties about the opinions of others.

He yelps again as he's flipped once more, back on the table, Bull holding his legs by the ankles to spread them wide. "Hold there," he demands, and when he releases Lavellan's legs he holds them exactly where he put them though it strains along his hamstrings and thighs. "Spread yourself." Lavellan's hands reach down to grasp either of his cheeks and spread them wide, exposed and open to him, and Bull reels back to spit two more times over his twitching hole. "Good boy," Bull grunts, then thrusts his thumb right back inside of him until he groans.

He reaches down to pull his cock through the fly of his trousers, giving himself a few quick strokes to full hardness before he lines up and begins to grind the head of his massive cock against Lavellan's soaked hole.

"Remind me next time to fuck your face on that throne." 

Lavellan feels his hole tighten and twitch, cock throbbing, balls tight to his body. He's almost ready to blow and Bull has barely even started yet. The thought of the qunari pounding his face on the seat of his authority makes him desperately hard. 

Bull pulls his thumb away so he can grip Lavellan's ass, cockhead still demanding entrance inside of him. It's a struggle to get in, and Lavellan can feel the pressure of him, how his body fights against the intrusion. His stomach roils as he thinks about how it's going to hurt, how he'll cry and whine and fight and Bull will hold him there and make him take it like the good little boy he is --

He jerks, back arching, whining and straining to hold his legs in position as the head of Bull's cock slowly, agonizingly spreads that hole and buries inside of him bit by bit. Lavellan throws his head back, struggling not to scream, his tight ass speared by Bull's cock. Fuck, it's thick. It feels like someone trying to shove their whole hand in there.

"Hurts," he whines, and Bull cracks his hips until he squeals. He should be quieter but he can't stop the noises he makes, the way he heaves for air, panting and whimpering. "Ser, it hurts," he repeats, eyes tightly squeezed shut.

"Good," Bull growls, and grabs him by the thighs to spread his legs wider and hold him in place, thrusting forward slowly but aggressively until that hole is forced to spread wide around his girth. It's a stinging, burning discomfort that crosses the line into pain as Lavellan whimpers, tears stinging the corner of his eyes, hips wriggling to try to get away from it.

"Hurts," he gasps again, tense and straining, back arched until it hurts.

Bull's fingers tighten until they bruise his skin and his hips snap again until he is buried fully inside of him, Lavellan's ass pressed to him. "Shh. Shh. Good boy. What a good boy, taking all that cock. I know it hurts, boss. I know it's too big for you." He releases his thigh with one hand, pressing his palm flat over his belly, enjoying the slight swell inside of him where his cock sits, stretching him out, rearranging his insides. Ah, fuck. Every time Bull is inside of him he swears he can't get any fuller. "Good, brave boy. Sweet boy. Think you deserve a reward for being such a good slut?"

"Yes," Lavellan pants, forcing his eyes open despite the tears that streak and blur his vision. "Yes please." 

Bull shifts, bends over him, and pins his wrists into the war table below him. He's so close that Lavellan can feel every hot heaving breath from his nostrils, huffing and grunting, forcing Lavellan's legs to spread wide around Bull's girth. So pinned, he bends down once to bite hard at his neck and shoulder -- sure to leave a mark behind he'll have to debate healing later -- and leans back up before he pulls his hips back and begins to slam into him in earnest.

Lavellan cries out too loud, fear of discovery forgotten in lieu of the heated arousal it inspires in him to think about _being_ discovered like this -- pinned under a man so obviously dominant over him in every way, fucked and used on top of his work. His cock is soaking, hard, twitching, thinking about if they knew how their so-called Herald of Andraste begged to be fucked hard by the Tal-Vashoth mercenary who made him come over and over and over.

He mewls as he stills under him, eyes half-hooded, face tear-stained with the pain of this penetration. He can't move, it hurts, but neither does he stop Bull from pounding his massive cock into his hole forcefully until his heavy swinging balls slap against Lavellan's aching ass. Bull releases wrist to reach down and pinch hard at Lavellan's nipples to make him squeal and twitch, each writhe and twist changing the angle at which Bull's fat cock drags over the inside of him. It's going to be agony in a few hours once it catches up to him, but right now all he wants is for Bull to raw him like a common whore.

"That's my boy," Bull snarls, his hips pulled back to pull his cock almost entirely free before he thrusts back in as hard and deep as he can. It hurts so much but he never wants it to stop. _My boy._ He thrusts his chest up as Bull grasps each nipple now and twists cruelly, pulling hard to make him cry out.

"Yours," he chokes out between whimpering shudders. "Yours. I'm yours. I'm yours, daddy." He purrs in pleasure as Bull slaps into him, Lavellan's taut belly stretched over his thickness, his own cock wet at the tip with the force of his own arousal, and throbbing, aching for more.

"You want to come?" Bull murmurs, voice tender, and Lavellan jerks and thrusts into his cock. 

"Yes. Yes. Yes please. Please let me come. Please ser, please, please let me come oh fuck _please_ \--"

Bull's chuckle is fond, surprisingly sweet, hand releasing his now-aching chest to reach down and grasp Lavellan's comparatively much smaller cock. "You can come once I have," he says, because while he generally likes to milk as many orgasms out of Lavellan as he can and encourages him to come early and often, now he wants to remind him who is in charge here. Who belongs to who.

"Come in me," Lavellan pleads. "Please. Please. Oh, fuck." 

Bull pulls back with a roar that makes him wince and slams into him so hard that Lavellan's entire body jerks and rocks over the table, forced up inch by inch. The war table itself does not budge, does not even creak with his weight. He thrusts so hard he's going to leave bruises on Lavellan's ass, and he's so big in him that Lavellan swears he can feel every twitch and throb as his thick shaft buries into him over and over. 

Bull comes first, because Lavellan does what he's told, and he snaps his hips so hard into him that Lavellan's grunt is sure to carry into the hallway. Bull always comes hard and now is no exception, the first flood of his thick seed so hot and heavy inside of him that Lavellan can _feel_ his belly swell. It's not much, but enough that the difference is noticeable, and he throws his head back. He's not able to stop it, can't hold back, and he jerks and spasms as he comes around him the whole time Bull is unloading inside of him -- thinking how much he loves this, being absolutely flooded to the brim with his seed. 

He shudders, moans, and collapses, spread out under him, very aware that he is going to have to spend the rest of his tenure as Inquisitor staring at the spot on the map where the Iron Bull nailed him and worrying about whether this or that smudge is actually a cum stain.

Bull huffs a laugh of relief, head thrown back, occasionally interrupted by a pleased grunt or moan, and rocks his hips more gently now throughout his climax as he fills Lavellan. There's so much of it that it can't all fit, is forced out of him to dribble back out of his hole and trail down the curve of his ass. 

"There we go." Bull grabs him by the hip to pull him down so his ass hangs over the edge of the war table, considering whether he wants to pull out and make a huge mess he's going to have to come and clean up later because Lavellan is _not_ going to be available for anything other than the world's heaviest nap for at least a day.

He pats Lavellan's thigh as the elf shudders and twitches, toes curling and spreading in turns.

"C'mon," Bull says with a hearty chuckle. "Let's get you back to your room before someone sees what a disgrace you are." Straightening, he sweeps Lavellan off the table into his arms and presses a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth until Lavellan turns his head to kiss him mouth to mouth, dazed and exhausted.

"Thank you, ser," he murmurs.

"You're welcome, boss."


	6. kadan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually, he's the one who's been taking it.

It's neither him nor Bull who lands the final blow; it's Cassandra. Fitting.

The Inquisitor stumbles back, his hands still raised to maintain the barrier he's erected around his companions. Bull cries out, then Cassandra hollers in that particular way of hers that's enough to make anyone's blood runs cold, and the beast itself lets out a bloodcurdling shriek as it claws at the air, stumbling back with footsteps so heavy they shake the very earth.

And then she collapses to her side and no longer moves.

Lavellan keeps his barrier up, suspicious, as Cassandra yanks her sword out of the creature's mangled throat, glowering as she sidles out of the way of a spurt of blurt that dwindles quickly to a mere trickle; the beast's heart has stopped pumping. Only when Bull kicks it as hard as he can with the foot that's not in a brace does and the high dragon does not respond does Lavellan cautiously release his barrier.

Then Bull whoops, great axe in the air lofted with a single hand, and closes the distance between them. He reaches -- for a moment Lavellan leans in expecting to be lifted and swung aroud, but -- all he does is clap him on the back so hard Lavellan stumbles forward and nearly topples into the corpse.

Right -- she doesn't know.

He turns and glowers at Bull with a huff. "Thanks, I really wanted a faceful of dragon arse," he says, straightening with a wince. He'll be feeling this fight for a while and he's afraid half his hair is singed off. "Cassandra, are you all right?"

"I am fine. No injury to speak of."

"You would be," Lavellan says sourly. Whatever Seeker powers she has make her nigh-indestructible, it seems. He nudges Bull with a foot. "You?"

Bull stabs the great axe into the ground and it actually stays in place, then stretches. Lavellan suspects he is actually flexing, damn him. "Couple flea bites. They can wait. We oughta send word that she's down first."

Lavellan nods, wiping dragon's blood off his forehead with the back of his wrist and shifting uncomfortably when he notes the way Bull looks at him with naked lust on his face. It's not Bull that makes him uncomfortable. He knows very well that what he wants to do is crawl on top of him, pin him into the bloodied dirt and rut him right here -- he's talked about it often enough that Lavellan is very aware of those particular fantasies of his -- but not while they have an... audience, and he likely knows Lavellan will object as long as those 'flea bites' are untreated.

No, what makes him uncomfortable is how much he wants the same thing.

"Let's hail the troops, then," Lavellan says.

Over the next few hours Inquisition forces stream into the valley, their heavy footsteps tramping all over the natural flora and making Lavellan wince. Didn't shems know how to walk lightly? They always made a mess wherever they went, and it embarrassed him. No wonder the Dalish they met were so wary of them.

But his troops themselves never caused him embarrassment. Brave, hard-working people, in this case sheer numbers were needed. The valley was still infested with dragonlings, so the Inquisitor and his party stayed behind to help keep their workers safe while the troops began hacking at the high dragon's corpse. Every part of her would be used, which went a long way to soothing Lavellan's guilt. The hide would be cured and made into armour that could withstand all but the strongest of steel; the bones themselves carved into blades and staves far outmatching any smelted ore; the flesh and offal was edible, and would be distributed to the refugees (he would see to that himself); the sinew had many uses, including bowstrings and thread for suturing; the blood for magic and runeworking; and the claws, horns, and teeth would be carved into decorative items and likely gifted to their...

Their...

Teeth --

He blinks, realization dawning him that he may never get another opportunity for this. How many high dragons are there in Thedas? How many are the Inquisition's responsibility? They'd only come to take care of this one because they needed the queen's goodwill after the mess their mage allies had made of Redcliffe, and because, frankly, it was the right thing to do. The dragon had nested in the valley here and was wreaking havoc over an area already ravaged by the civil war. The refugees here didn't need to worry about being overrun and eaten by dragon babies on top of the cold and bandits in the hills making it too dangerous to hunt for game.

Still, he regrets that the beast had to die at all. The world felt a little less with every one of these that died.

And this one is all full of... teeth.

What was it Bull had told him? _You take a dragon's tooth, split it in two, and then you each wear it. So that no matter how far apart you are, you're always together._ It feels selfish to take it, though intellectually he knows there's not a soul in this world who would fault him for _asking_ for things, but Lavellan is not comfortable asking for things, not from these people. He still remembers being chained and imprisoned, the terrible threat that his people would suffer for something he never did. He still feels like he's here only by their good grace, and any misstep is liable to get him killed.

But this he wants.

He waffles on it all evening, and finally brings himself to approach. Their workers are still butchering the corpse, trying to get the edible meat out before any rot sets in, and they're nearly done. There's a small group working on extracting the hide from the skull, so that's where he goes.

"Pardon me --"

The young man bent over his task turns, and his eyes widen to the size of both moons as he shoots to his feet so fast he nearly topples over. "Inquisitor! Your worship! You're -- you're still here, I hadn't heard --" 

Lavellan blinks, then his face relaxes into an easy smile. "It's Sutherland, isn't it?"

The shem's eyes alight with the sort of fierce pleasure that calls to mind a little boy being praised for his first set of properly fletched arrows. "You -- remembered my name. I mean, yes. Uh, yes, it's Sutherland, your Worship. And -- you remember Shayd. I mean, you've met before. And Voth, of course."

He makes eye contact with Voth and inclines his head in that secret way of elves speaking to each other amongst the shemlen without words. "Of course I remember. Your company does good work." He is entertained still by how Sutherland is unnable to staunch the grin that beams across his face, or how one of his two companions, the human woman, turns her face to hide her amused smile. The third, the elven man, well, he doesn't speak much. Lavellan does not always enjoy this strange relationship he has with shems who see him as something bigger than he is -- 'like one of those statues of Andraste holding bowls of fire,' Varric says in frequent comparison -- but Sutherland's wild adulation is... a little funny, yes. 

It helps to know that all he wants is to do good. Not to spread the word of the Maker or defeat the heathens or whatever -- just to help. He can respect that.

"What are you doing out here? No bandits to chase?"

"Well, there are. I mean, there were! That is, there might still be. That's what we were working on."

"In dragon territory? You're brave." All right, so he also finds it funny to puff up the man's ego. It's hard not to. He's so earnest; Lavellan likes him. They could use more soldiers like these three.

Sutherland clears his throat. "Well, you know, we stayed out of the way... well out of the way --"

"Except for that nest of dragonlings," Shayd adds, finally managing to pierce the hide. 

"Here?" Lavellan asks.

"No, it was further north. They must have wandered off and gotten lost. They weren't as big as the ones out here."

"That's good to know. We'll stay and see if there are any other nests. I'd hate to make it all the way back to Skyhold just to have to turn around and kill another dragon," he jokes.

"And you _did_ slay a dragon," Sutherland exclaims, eyes glossy, clearly awed. "Just the three of you. Alone."

"Seeker Pentaghast has fought dragons before, and the Iron Bull is something of an expert on them," Lavellan says. "I was relying on their expertise. But in fairness, it's not an experience I'm itching to repeat. But actually, since I'm here, I was wondering if I might ask you to help me with something."

Sutherland snaps to attention. "Oh, yes. Of course!"

Lavellan's eyes slide to the side, over the gaping maw of the dead beast. "I need a tooth."

\---

"Dragon's tooth," Eustace Morris says, whistling. "From that one in the Hinterlands, huh? The Fereldan Frostback?"

Lavellan rocks back on his heels, watching as Morris turns the tooth over in his hands -- carefully. "Mm-hmm." 

"Heard you took it down with a party of three." 

Lavellan stifles a groan. It's been weeks and it feels like he's told this story a thousand times already. "Mm-hmm," he repeats. "Seeker Pentaghast, the Iron Bull, and I." It should have been four, but after Dorian's disastrous meeting with his father, Lavellan had insisted he take some time off. And now he's glad for it. One less person who was put at risk. "And we nearly got our collective bits singed off, so don't go spreading any stories about wild heroics, please."

"Not necessary. Half the people around here already think you're fourteen feet tall and can't be killed." Lavellan scrunches up his nose, though he sees a glimmer of amusement in Morris' generally sour expression. "So what are you looking for?" the man says. "Dagger hilt? We can make it into a blade but honestly, you'd be better served with metal, or proper bone if there's any left. It'd probably just be for display. If you want some magic shite done with it you'd best talk to Dagna."

Lavellan shifts his weight from foot to foot and clears his throat. "Actually, I... was, well..." He takes a breath and lets it out. There will be no stopping the vine of gossip once it takes root here. "I was hoping for a necklace."

Morris gives him the most deadpan look he's seen in days. His eyes sweep over Lavellan's diminutive figure, devoid of pomp and circumstance, not prone to ostentation. 'Exotic,' (ugh) 'but dreadfully dull' is the word for his fashion sense in Orlais. He's more likely to be seen knee-deep in mud than bejeweled. "A necklace."

"Two, actually," Lavellan says in a tiny voice. Morris' eyebrows raise so high they threaten to exit his face entirely. "I wanted it broken in half, and two pieces made."

"It's awfully big for that," the man says, hefting the tooth in both hands.

Lavellan wants to crawl out of a window and bury himself in the dirt outside. "Well, it's meant for someone... um. Tall."

Morris works approximately fifteen feet from the tavern. He knows immediately, but Lavellan is so busy looking at the varnish chipping off his toes that Vivienne had insisted on applying ('if you insist on doing without shoes, let us at least make them presentable, my dear') that he doesn't have to see the look on his face. There's going to be a lot of such looks in the future, he knows, so maybe he'd best get used to it, but --

"Right," Morris says, and when Lavellan peeks -- he sees a smile. "I'll see what I can do. ... and I'll keep it discreet."

Lavellan clears his throat, already backing towards the door. With any luck, he won't have just bred a bunch of rumours. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

\---

It's been two weeks since he's last seen him. Dispatching the Chargers to Emprise du Lion was the right thing to do, he trusted them to get the job done, and though it was tempting to have Bull stay behind, Lavellan knows he likes to lead them when he can. He trusts Krem, but he's a hands-on guy. So he sent him with them.

But it's good, isn't it, that he was gone; Bull is observant, too June-damned clever, and Lavellan just knows that if he'd been there he would have figured it out by the second day. He's always telling him how his face is an open book, and Lavellan wants this to be a surprise.

Still, he sees him on the other side of the tavern and his face breaks into a smile. He hopes, to onlookers, that it's a friendly smile. Not the _fuck, come here and fuck me_ smile he suspects it might be. 

He meanders over to Cabot at the bar first so as to not look so desperate, but he doesn't ask for a drink -- just checks in on the mood. Only then does he saunter, casually, over towards Bull's table. He looks at him, and Lavellan can read him well enough to know that he's amused by the awful job Lavellan is doing of acting casual.

"Hey, boss. What can I do for you?"

Lavellan opens his mouth, then glances at the full tavern. It's just on the cusp of evening, and he wonders if maybe he ought to have waited until nightfall, but he's been stewing over this all day and it was too hard. Made him too nervous. So he's here, shuffling his feet standing before Bull where he sits in his usual spot in the Herald's Rest -- right against a wall towards the corner, where he can watch the whole room out of his one remaining eye. The object is burning a hole in his pocket, but he can't have an audience for this, too. He frowns. "I... have something for you."

Bull raises his eyebrow, a lopsided smirk crossing his scarred face. His gaze breaks from the bustling room to sweep over Lavellan's body in that particular way that makes his throat go dry, and it occurs to Lavellan they've not actually spoken in several days. Too busy. "Really. Well. I think I've got something for you, too." Bull rises to his feet in a motion that is less stiff than one might expect, given his age and the ravages of combat on his body. "Come on. _I'll_ go first."

He holds out his hand, the one with the mangled fingers, and Lavellan places his palm in his. His hand is so tiny in Bull's.

Somehow no one notices his hand in Bull's as the qunari quietly slips out of the room -- amazing how silent he can be, for all his girth; he even knows where to step on the stairs to avoid the creaky ones -- and leads him up, and up. Bull kept a room above the tavern's attic, and though he's moved much of his stuff to the Inquisitor's quarters by now -- Lavellan is very much enjoying sleeping in the same bed almost every night, and waking up to see Bull watching over him, sleepy-sated and handsome -- this is still unofficially acknowledged as Bull's room. Most everyone claimed a room within the first week at Skyhold and never really moved. 

Bull closes the door behind them, then sweeps Lavellan off his feet and carries him towards the bed, bridal-style. He laughs. His arms wrap around Bull's massive neck, face close to his face despite the danger of his horns as Bull nuzzles into his jaw and throat.

"Missed you, boss," he murmurs, and his voice is so rich and warm that Lavellan wants to bottle it and keep it at his bedside for those long snowy nights. 

Lavellan wriggles in his arms so that Bull tosses him onto the bed and then crawls over him, his weight making the frame and mattress sag dangerously. Lavellan's legs rise, wrap around Bull's thick midsection, hands pressing to his chest. "I missed you, too." He lets his right hand slide slowly down, past the waistband of Bull's trousers and then... a little further. "I think someone else missed me, too," he says, grinning. He hadn't intended to start something but that Bull is... randy... is pretty clear, and, well...

Well. Lavellan likes it.

But instead of grabbing him by the hair and tossing him on the bed, or slamming him by the throat into the ground and taking him from behind -- Bull sweeps his arm around Lavellan's waist, pulls him in close. "C'mere," he murmurs, and Lavellan --

He sighs and relaxes.

His hands rest on Bull's chest, eyes closed as he tips his head up, and Bull obligingly lowers his head to kiss him on the mouth. His lips are much thinner than Lavellan's, but he likes how it feels, likes the scratchiness of Bull's beard against Lavellan's smooth hairless face. He likes how insistent Bull is when he kisses him -- how firmly he presses his mouth to his, catching his lip between his teeth, his tongue forcing his mouth open. Bull always takes charge in their kissing.

"What do we say, little boy?" Bull murmurs, lips trailing kisses over his jaw. 

Lavellan groans, turns his head and wriggles impatiently. "Fuck me, ser." He rakes his nails over that bare chest, likes the way they catch over his scars. "Please." He turns his head back around to give him the most pleading look he can manage, mimicking the sad needy faces of the warhounds Cullen pretends he doesn't sneak treats to.

And Bull laughs, a rolling rumbling thing in his chest and belly, as he cups Lavellan's head in one of his massive hands and threads his fingers tenderly through his curls. "Since you asked so nicely, boss," he says, and reaching across him he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one. Carefully. Gently. Lavellan will have to leave later and he's not going to make him run buck-ass naked through Skyhold, which he appreciates.

Bull helps him slip out of his clothes, sighs appreciately at the sight of his bare body -- slender, taut, toned from months of battle, particularly in the arms where he's started to put on some muscle from all that swordplay -- and drags his hands along his side. 

"You're fucking sexy," he says. "That tight little body. Fuck." He grasps Lavellan's ankles and repositions his legs so that when he rolls his hips he can grind right into his ass. "Mm. Love it. Makes my dick look bigger."

Lavellan laughs, hands dropping to his side to rest on the mattress, and moans low. He can feel him hardening. "You really don't need the help."

" _You_ do." He reaches over and jerks the drawer that functions as a night stand open, grasps a bottle of oil and pops the cork with his teeth before spitting it across the room. "I'd treat you to more foreplay but I've really missed that ass," he says before dipping two fingers in it and pressing them in the cleft of Lavellan's aforementioned anatomy.

And he sighs and rocks his hips up, practically purrs as Bull teases at him with those fingers, not inside him by making him slick and ready for him. 

"Shhh. Just relax, boss." He crooks a finger, wriggles it around Lavellan's hole until he mewls like a kitten, then gently slips it inside of him. He's slick enough that there's no discomfort, just a throb of pleasure. "Let me take care of you."

Lavellan looks at him, really looks, and sees it on his face not for the first time -- how much Bull wants to take care of someone. Not just him -- others, too. It's obvious with Krem, how Bull cares for him, treats him like a little brother or a nephew or a son, and how his nose is always in the Chargers' business otherwise. Even the rest of their companions can't escape it, Bull asking after their health, checking in with them. But with Lavellan it's different, something more...

Protective? Possessive?

"Yes," he murmurs, and lays back, still and soft, and lets his body relax. He trusts him, trusts in this. Bull has never failed to make him feel better than he did before they met.

Bull strokes and teases and enters him finger by finger, so wet that he fits inside effortlessly, like he was made to be in him. Bull hovers over him, planting sweet gentle kisses along Lavellan's eager throat, murmuring encouragement when Lavellan spreads his legs and rocks his hips.

"That's it," Bull says. "That's it. Let me in. Good boy. Such a good, sweet boy." He crooks a finger, strokes him on the inside. "Let daddy take care of you." 

Lavellan moans, and pants and squirms, cock rock hard and dribbling with precum as Bull fingers him expertly, hot breath against his ear. Just one of his fingers is as thick as another man's prick. 

"Thought about you," Bull rumbles, finger stroking at Lavellan's prostate until he's spread out flat under him, panting and mewling. "The whole time. I kept thinking about those pretty little lips wrapped around my cock. Or shoving you into the dirt and fucking you raw." Lavellan moans -- his cock throbs imagining it, letting Bull take him with an audience, in camp where everyone could see or hear. "That whole shitty place is just blasted with snow. It never ends, Orlais is a trash heap. My balls are still half-frozen. But you'd look so pretty against all that white shit. My pretty boy." 

He thrusts a second finger in and teases so virulently against Lavellan's prostate that he comes for the first time without even touching his cock, spilling seed over his belly even up to his chest, tight and convulsing around Bull's fingers as he squeals and moans. Bull plays with him throughout his climax, then lets his fingers slow to a gentle steady pump in and out not so much to prepare him or stimulate, just for the pleasure of it until Lavellan's willing body heats again, cock twitching and throbbing back to life.

He takes him again, face buried between Lavellan's legs, licking and sucking until another orgasm rocks his small body, and that would be enough for anyone, any sane person but Bull is never satisfied until he can't move, until he's so subsumed in pleasure that he no longer thinks, only acts, and his head stays between Lavellan's aching legs, so sensitive to touch that the slightest flick of his tongue against his cock has him buck his hips and scream.

"Please," he whines. "Please. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please --" What is he even begging for? For more? For it to stop? Bull could -- and has done, in the past -- do this to him for hours, this sweet torture. His eyes are rolled back in his head, limp and twitching, sprawled under him and Bull chuckles, reaching down to finally undress. He tosses his clothes aside into the mess on the floor, where there are books strewn carelessly around, furniture knocked over, even loose apples rolled to the corners or the remnants of a pie he'd meant to finish before getting distracted -- the man could eat the kitchens empty. 

Lavellan spreads his legs. He knows what to do. He is a good boy.

Bull kneels on the bed, grumbling at the way it creaks -- Lavellan will have to slather love and affection on his belly later to remind him that he is perfect in every way -- and grasps his ankle, slings it up to rest his leg against his chest. When he leans forward Lavellan's leg bends in a way that would strain anyone else, but he's an elf. They're --

Bendy.

Lavellan is slick and ready for him, but it's still a struggle for him to force the tip in, a low hiss between his teeth as Lavellan whines and does his absolute very best to hold still, to relax for him. But fuck, it's hard. He groans and rolls his hips as Bull pushes slowly in, pants as he starts to thrust, screams when his hands grip him by the hips and hold him in place while he slams into him over and over and over --

Bull fucks him until he is completely devastated, laying flat on the bed under him, limp and shuddering with every one of his lazy thrusts. Limp as a ragdoll, he doesn't protest when Bull gathers him up in his arms, pulls him in tight against his chest and just -- holds him. Just holds him, warm and solid, a weight he can bury himself under. 

"Shhh," Bull murmurs, a hand up to brush his hair out of his face, stroking him like a cat. "Shh. I've got you, boss." Lavellan sighs, leaning into Bull's lips when he presses them to the top of his head. "You're safe here."

He's not sure how long he lays there -- he loses track of time so easily with Bull -- but when he finally stirs, it's still daylight outside, though the air has the warm golden quality of pre-dusk. He might have missed a whole day of work, but Bull is never sorry for keeping him. _You needed it,_ he always says. 

Bull knows what he needs. Lavellan trusts him with that.

He wriggles gently in his arms and is rewarded with his chuckle as his hand strokes soothingly along his side. Lavellan sighs again, then stretches every muscle in his body in a series of long, languid stretches, from his neck down to each individual toe. His bones and joints crackle pleasantly as he twists his spine around, warm waves of pleasure coursing through him until, satisfied, he collapses and lays still again.

"There we go," Bull murmurs, so close to his head that his breath brushes Lavellan's long ears. "No Inquisition. No war. Nothing outside this room. Just you... and me."

He takes a breath so deep that it hurts his lungs, then lets it out just as slowly and deeply, deflating like an empty wineskin. When he twists, he can see Bull's handsome face, the relaxed, satisfied look on his features -- and he smiles, leans over to kiss him lazily. Distracting man.

Bull slides his hand down Lavellan's side, pulls back and lazily slaps him on the flank. Lavellan grumbles, mock-annoyed, before wriggling out of his arms. Bull gets the hint and lays back with a heavy sigh, his eyes following him as Lavellan rises and reaches for his trousers. He loves this, but he _does_ have work to do today. Both of them know that.

He's got both legs into his trousers and stands up, hopping up and down to get the rest of his legs all the way up -- these things are so blasted tight, which he knows Bull is a big fan of, big, big fan -- and it's a little harder with the amount of cum Bull just unloaded in him, fuck.

Lavellan's fingers are fiddling with the laces when Bull speaks up again. "So. What did you want to talk about?"

Lavellan laughs breathlessly, head ducked. Trust him to bring this up _now_. He's just turning to look at him fondly when the door opens.

"Sorry to disturb your rest, Inquisitor, but our fortific -- oh, sweet Maker."

Everybody freezes, but especially Cullen, who is standing in the now wide open doorway, a clipboard raised to cover his eyes awkwardly, head twisted away from the sight of --

Ah, yes. There's The Iron Bull, hanging out in the nude, casually draped across the bed he and Lavellan had just had hours of messy sex on not long ago. Cock out and draped halfway across his leg like a wyvern's tail, propped up on one elbow.

"Cullen." Bull inclines his head. "How's it going."

Lavellan feels his face heat. The tips of his ears burn and he clears his throat, standing there awkwardly semi-dressed and hoping he doesn't have cum on his face anywhere. 

"Is the Inquisitor awake? I thought perhaps we -- oh!"

Josie.

Oh, Creators, not Josie.

There she is standing right next to Cullen, staring wide-eyed directly at The Iron Bull's penis, which is hanging out like an eggplant in a farmer's garden that grew so large his wife started having ideas. 

Leliana is going to kill him.

He clears his throat, glancing at the bed and his very naked lover to the doorway where Cullen and Josephine appear to have spontaneously petrified, because neither of them are politely backing away and closing the door. No, Cullen is pretending he's not peeking from behind that board of his and Josephine is straight-up gawking with the awed, wondering look on her face of a woman who suddenly finds herself with a great many questions about life.

His face heats. They really didn't need to know this about him in such... graphic detail.

"This is actually, um... uh -- erm..." He gestures uselessly, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies on his lips when he realises he's just sort of waved directly towards Bull's dick which is flopped over there like the trunk of a drunken elephant. "Uh-- um..."

Cullen has both hands up as if to fend it off. Lavellan can feel The Iron Bull's amusement rolling off him in waves. "I-I'm -- so... sorry," Cullen stammers, and Josephine is just standing there.

"I cannot move my legs," she says, almost conversational.

Lavellan had forgotten, for a moment, the open door. Cassandra waltzes right past the two of them with the brazen confidence of a woman who knows that no situation she walks into is not one that she can't punch herself right back out of.

"Is something the matt-- augh!"

Ah, yes, because this is what happens when he thinks 'well, it can't get worse.' What's next? Solas? His Keeper? His _mother_?

He feels as much as hears Bull's growl, and turns to look at him, surprised; he had expected him to keep laughing. "Oh, for fuck's sake --" he starts, and Lavellan wonders if maybe -- maybe for Bull, these moments are as precious and sacred as they are for him. If maybe what upsets him is having this sanctuary he's created for them so thoroughly stomped all over by people who for some reason have decided to make it a spectator sport, _and since when is it anyone else's business whose dick he's sitting on?_

"Do you _see_ this?" Cassandra demands, gesturing towards them, and Lavellan is staring somewhere at the ceiling so he does not see the look on Cullen's face but plainly hears him: 

"Nnnn _no._ "

Cassandra huffs, and turns again to stare them both down, and having Cassandra staring you down is about as comforting as if it were a dragon. "So, I take it --"

Bull laughs, the bed creaking as he shifts weight from across his shoulders to gesture at Lavellan. "Actually," he says, " _he's_ the one who's been taking it."

Lavellan's face is probably cherry-coloured. From the doorway he can hear Cullen give an undignified chuckle and snort, and Josie clear her throat nervously.

Cassandra sounds about as intense as she always does when she glowers at the both of them -- and Lavellan knows she does not mean to glower, only that glowering is her natural state of being -- and gestures. "I apologise for interrupting what I assume was a ... momentary diversion."

"Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun," Cullen hedges, and Lavellan is shocked to see that he's _smiling._

Lavellan glances to the right, and sees Josie nod her head, though her gaze is still on... or, for fuck's sake. It's not _that_ big!

... is it?

"Who wouldn't be a little curious?" she says. Both Cassandra and Cullen turn to stare at her before looking back at _him._ Directly at him. Expectantly.

... waiting for him to laugh this off. To make a joke, like he always does, some clever comment on his lips, a pun that would diffuse the situation, invite them all to share a laugh. _Of course, of course. Aren't I entitled to have a little fun? To fool around?_ It's what they all plainly expect to hear from his lips and suddenly he's --

Angry.

"This is more than just a momentary diversion and Bull and I intend to continue," he snaps, feeling himself frowning. He sounds stern. He must be using his Inquisitor Voice. "Is that a problem?"

Cullen is first to speak, the verbal equivalent of scrambling back up a hill she just fell down. "No!"

Like Cullen, Josephine sounds almost relieved. "Not at all!"

And something in Cassandra's face has... changed. A sort of sly knowing as she looks over both of them, like a light's gone on in her head. He's not sure he likes that look. He knows what she reads when she's alone. All those rippling pecs and throbbing... "A surprise, I'll admit, but not a problem." She gestures apologetically, inclining her head, and Cullen mimics the gesture, a grin of his own on his face as he backs up through the open door.

"We'll leave you be," he says, cueing the rest of them to follow him -- "Do enjoy yourselves!" Josephine adds, Leliana is so going to kill him -- and finally, blissfully, _leave._ Cassandra shuts the door behind her, and Lavellan collapses onto the bed, head in his hands.

"You all right, boss?" Bull asks.

Oh no, he's definitely planning his funeral for when Leliana kills him in his sleep. Lavellan raises his head and turns to look at him, tired and, in spite of himself, wry. He can't help the smile on his face. "I think we may have blinded poor Cullen."

Bull's face softens as he chuckles, shaking his head. And he realises -- this is it, this moment. This, now, when Bull smiles like that, this is the right time.

He straightens, nervous, stomach fluttering. There's the real fear that he may have wildly miscalculated their relationship... but Bull did not correct him, did not stop him.

He takes a breath, reaching into his belt. "But now that we have a moment..."

"What's that?"

"A dragon tooth. Split in two." He holds one out, the bigger half, nudging it towards him. Morris outdid himself, not only in sourcing a jewelry comfortable working with bone, but one who understood, implicitly, what to make for the kind of person who would _want_ to wear a dragon's tooth. It is not evenly split from a full tooth, but rather a chunk of it divided into parts, one about a third the size of the other. The jagged edges have been sanded down, but when held together they still neatly interlock with each other, creating a whole. A metal setting holds the tooth, a loop on one end through which a simple but good-quality leather cord threads through to tie around the neck. The setting of Bull's half is dawnstone, his favourite metal, but otherwise quite plain, with a little decorative trim at the base that Lavellan had been pleased to see was elven in design. Not fancy or ostentatious, but quietly thoughtful of the preferences of the man it was intended for. He only hopes Bull will like it, too, and Lavellan takes a deep, nervous breath. "So that no matter how far apart life takes us, we're always together."

Bull is quiet for so long that Lavellan worries that maybe he dreamed this whole thing and is now caught in the in-between of waking and sleeping. But Bull has reached out his massive hand, the one missing two fingers, palm-up, and lets it pool and rest in his open hand. He's looking at the tooth, not at Lavellan, with his one remaining eye.

He closes his fingers gently around the tooth and pulls it close to his chest.

And finally, after an eternity, he looks up. Looks him in the face. "Not often people surprise me, kadan."

"Kadan?" Lavellan asks, his heart hovering somewhere in his ribcage, beating wildly against the confines of bone.

"Kadan," Bull says, one of his enormous hands coming up to rest on Lavellan's head and push, gently, so gently, like he's something precious and wanted, like a jewel. His eye is so soft, so green, now, with his inner warmth, so that though they're on the top of a snow-covered mountain Lavellan feels like he's touching his bare feet to the sun-dappled warm grass of the Free Marches forests his people drifted through once. Bull will not stop looking at his face, wondering and tender. "My heart."

His heart hurts with the swell of his joy. His throat contracts, painfully, around a lump in the center, and his eyes are misty. "Kadan," Lavellan repeats, tasting the word in his mouth now laden with meaning, savors the soft warm way it touches him as he's lowered gently to the bed under him, Bull hovering over him now not as a predator but as a man with the desire to cling to something of great consequence to him. Something he wants. Something he maybe more than just likes. Something he might be able to love. Lavellan raises both hands to his cheeks, touches the scars that cross his face like so many rivers. "Ma vhenan," he whispers, an offering, another way to say what he always says, what he always _wants_ to say to him:

Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u r ur own beta reader and have no idea if you jsut left some sentences unfinished but you're tired of looking at this so you just throw it up


	7. going public.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cat's out of the bag.

Dalish is the first to descend on him.

"Lethallin!"

She slungs an arm around his neck -- they're outside near the training grounds so they definitely have an audience of shemlen faithful who are appalled to see someone manhandle the Herald of Andraste so -- and gives him such a noogie that he winces. 

"It's about time," she exclaims, continuing to noogie until he squirms out of her grasp like a cat that no longer wants to be held. "Have you any idea how hard it was to keep this shite a secret?"

"Not that it was much of a secret," Krem adds, and then slaps him on the back so that he wheezes. "But congratulations, boss. Was getting a little tired of seeing him mope around."

Lavellan is taken aback. "Mope?"

"Oh, you would not _believe_ the moping." Rocky is... gods be good do any of these people know how to show affection outside of hitting people various places. Lavellan's going to have another bruise. Not the fun kind. "Leaving was fine, but on the way back? Forget about it."

"'Hurry up, you guys, I've got _work_ at Skyhold,'" Dalish says, attempting to lower her voice an octave in imitation of their boss. Then she waggles her eyebrows at him. "Oh, _work_ , is it? Aye, I'm sure he _worked_ plenty." Lavellan's face feels uncomfortably hot.

Krem grins toothily. "What, you thought we didn't all know? He moved his stuff into your quarters! He was always sneaking off there. The chief thinks he's Lord Sneaky-strut, but..."

Lavellan has his face in his hands, burning up all the way to the tips of his ears. "I thought we were being discreet," he says in a small voice, prompting a chorus of laughter.

"In a company this small, there's no privacy," Dalish tells him, slapping him on the back affectionately. "A bit like the clan, that. We weren't spreading any rumours, cross my heart."

Krem makes as if to smack him on the back _also_ but stops halfway in a way that is so deliberate he had to _know._ "Come on, you need a drink, and we can talk about anything else."

"Only a wee bit of innuendo," Dalish promises, and it's Rocky who speaks up.

"Yeah, because you get enough in your end --"

Skinner wheels back and punches Rocky right in the arm, prompting a yelp, and Lavellan laughs helplessly, head in his hands. Well, it could have been worse.

* * *

"Inquisitor."

He looks up. Lavellan has a knife in one hand, which he's using to score the leather pieces he's working on; halla never wear tack, but his friend has agreed to wear saddlebags if they're not too obtrusive, and he's making them himself. It gives him something to do with his hands, mostly. Only weeks away from Halamshiral, and the empress' _stupid_ masquerade, he could use distractions. "Cassandra."

She hesitates, hands frozen mid-gesture, in between steps. "I'm -- afraid I may have given you the wrong impression."

Well, that gets his attention. He puts the knife down and turns his head towards her as she hovers in the foorway. "Oh?"

"I don't disapprove. In fact, I -- well." Cassandra stops, frowns, and starts over. "I found it surprising. Perhaps I should not have."

He wants to ask why she would think it's surprising, but -- no, he understands what she means, and realises he's being unfair for feeling vaguely annoyed at her for simply expressing what everyone else is thinking. 

Cassandra hesitates again. He can tell this is hard for her, but that she's making the effort to reach out is touching. "It is... almost romantic, is it not?"

He almost laughs. She has no idea, does she. The things they do.

... does she?

Oh, Creators. She'd better not.

... Please don't let her know what they do.

"We didn't want anyone to know," he says quietly, "because... well, you know how people talk. But I -- ah, but I feel a certain... type of way, and I was ready to make it official." He takes a deep breath, then lets it out. "Perhaps I ought to have warned everyone first."

Cassandra moves in, now, and takes a seat. Close enough to be companionable, but not so close she's in his personal space. His relationship with her varied so wildly he could never be quite sure how they felt about each other. But it hurt nothing for him to open up to her; Cassandra only ever meant well. 

She smiles a little awkwardly, hands laid on the table before her. "Perhaps. If you meant it to be a surprise, surely he would have known then. I _am_ sorry if we ruined it."

"You didn't," he assures her, earning another rough smile from her.

"Good. I'm glad. And -- for what it's worth, Inquisitor, I hope you will be very happy with each other."

No one could ever say Cassandra was anything but earnest. She said that, and he believes it, of course. It feels nice to hear, too.

"Thank you. Do you know anything about leatherworking?"

* * *

"I take _one week off,_ " Dorian exclaims, pouncing on him on his way through the library, "and _things happen._ "

"Pavus, I don't know how to tell you this... You may want to sit down for this." Lavellan leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled with his chin resting against them. He leans in closely, expression severe and sympathetic. "...things continue to happen when you're not there."

"No! Say it isn't so!" Dorian slaps a hand to his chest and gives such a theatrically offended gasp as to put any Orlesian courtier to shame that Lavellan laughs first. He always loses Sarcasm Chicken. "Now, sit down -- because you realise there's no escape, of course -- and tell me everything. Did he trip and fall into a bath, perhaps? Is that how it happened?"

"What? No. I mean -- what? Dorian, no. He doesn't smell."

"Not _now_ , I imagine."

Lavellan harrumphs, channeling his inner octogenarian. "You don't smell like a bucketful of roses on the road either, you know."

"Lies and slander. I can't believe you southerners haven't discovered the magic that turns your sweat glands into perfume."

Lavellan pauses. "...what, seriously?"

And Dorian laughs so hard and suddenly he almost sprains something, his fingers pressed to his temples. "Maker's arse. Lavellan, you're not dodging the subject any longer. _I. Need. Details._ " He smacks his hand against the chair and gives him that expectant look that almost always successfully results in people doing what Dorian wants, so Lavellan sighs, resigned to this interrogation, and sits. 

* * *

Josephine. Cullen. Varric. Sera. Vivienne. Blackwall. _Solas_ , which was the worst -- like having your father give you the sex talk, only your father is not really your father and is self-aware the whole time and absolutely relishing how uncomfortable it's making you probably as revenge for that last prank you'd arranged with your sister from another mister.

At least Cole already knew.

He's ready to bite someone's hand off when he hears heavy creaking footsteps making their way up the stairway to his quarters, but when he turns all he sees is Bull's bulk coming up from the other side of the railing, and he sighs, tension draining from him.

"Long day, huh," Bull says, his one eye sweeping over him fondly.

"You've no idea," Lavellan says. He's already drifting towards him, as certain as a star. "I don't suppose you got the third degree, too."

Bull's low rumbling laughter is answer enough. He opens his arms and Lavellan slides into them, wrapping his arms around his thick waist and laying his head just under his chest where he's just barely tall enough to reach, and exhales again, low and long. Bull slides his hand up his back to tangle in his hair, but rather than yank as he often does, he cards his fingers gently through his curls and starts walking the two of them back towards the bed. "And how'd that go?"

Lavellan grumbles. "All anyone wanted to ask was how big your dick is."

Bull throws his head back and laughs. "What'd you tell them?"

"To ask Cullen."

Bull laughs again, swinging him up bridal-style to dump him unceremoniously on the bed. Lavellan lands with a _whump_ , but the bed really creaks in protest when Bull climbs in after him, setting his bulk in the center on his back; with his horns it's either back or belly and belly-down makes him too vulnerable. Lavellan crawls up over him, settling on top of him like a second mattress -- only this one is pleasantly firm or soft in all the right places, and is hot to the touch and moves up and down in a gentle soothing rhythm. Also, sometimes kisses him. Perfect. 

He lays his head across Bull's chest again, enjoying the sound of his heart beating deep within him, the pulsing of his blood pumping through his veins. It's good sometimes just to lay with him and remember that he's real and he's here and he wants him.

"I don't really want you to go," he murmurs. The Chargers have an assignment again. He can't just not deploy them because he's sleeping with their commander, and they're the best the Inquisition has to offer, just like Bull had promised when he'd hired them.

Bull's hand rubs up and down his back, pressing the knuckles of his severed fingers into the dip of Lavellan's spine. "You could give me orders to stay, you know."

Lavellan wrinkles his nose. "You'd hate that. Anyway, I need someone I trust on this. And I trust you and your people."

Bull leans down and kisses his forehead, a gesture surprisingly sweet and gentle for such a massive man who professes to hate things like hugs. "Well, as it happens, I've got an assignment for _you_ while I'm gone."

His interest is piqued. "Assignment?" He tips his head up to look him in the face, and Bull slides a hand down his back to brush over his ass.

"Mm-hmm. See, I'm going to be gone a week, and there's rules."

Rules make him curious. And frightened. And excited. "Go on," he says, cautious.

"Well, the way I see it, just because I'm gone doesn't give you an excuse to go getting comfortable. Or lazy. So the first day I'm gone, I want five orgasms."

Lavellan jerks back. "Five?!"

"Mm. Five. _Minimum._ More if you want. Spread 'em out however you want. All in a row in the morning, fine. Throughout the day, fine. You're allowed to get there any damn way you want. Play with your toys if you want. In fact, do. I wanna hear about it. Because that's the other part." Bull is looking down at him now, something evil glinting in his one remaining eye, his hand cupping Lavellan's chin to tip his head up. He's slowly sliding further up towards his face anyway. "You're going to tell me about each and every one when I get back. And I. Want. Details. So you'd better be paying _real_ good attention. No rubbing one out half-assed. Only whole-assed."

Lavellan feels his face grow hot. He's at a point where he can have these discussions, but hearing Bull speak so explicitly still... does things for him. "For a whole week?" 

"Not the whole week, no. Second day, no more toys. You can fuck yourself, but fingers only. Still five, though."

"I don't have time for that," Lavellan protests. Bull can do that to him in a night, but that's because Bull knows how to play him like a fiddle. _Five_ , on his own, even spaced out throughout the day, is asking too much. His dick is going to fall off.

"No excuses. Make time. I wanna hear about you sneaking off from the war room to jerk it. Third day, no more fingers. No more penetration. Touch anything else but that."

"I _can't,_ vhenan," Lavellan argues, feeling like he's not listening to him. He's listening to him, right?

Bull raises his eyebrow. "Sure you can. I've seen you do it."

"Yes, when you were there! I've never --" 

Bull reaches over and presses a finger to his lips, shushing him effectively because Lavellan is instantly quiet. "Fourth day, no more _touching_ yourself. At a minimum of three."

... and now he's not quiet, because -- "How am I supposed to..."

"I suggest you get creative." He reaches his hand back and smacks Lavellan's ass, making him jump and yell a little too loudly; he wasn't expecting it. "Because after that point? You don't cum. At all. Not until I get back and say you can. Instead you're going to sit in this big ol' bed all by yourself, and by then you're going to be used to getting off in it, but you won't. You'll lay there all night and think about it. Think about how _you can't._ " His hands wrap around Lavellan's waist and haul him all the way up to press his thin lips to his, teeth nipping at him. "And I want to hear every fantasy that passes through that pretty head while you wait."

Lavellan's face must be a colour not found in nature. Not embarrassed -- he's vaguely frustrated. He gives him these assignments that he can't do, and then --

Bull reaches out to grasp his jaw -- not clutching or tugging, just gently resting his fingers along the curve there and turning his head. "I know you can be a good boy for me," Bull murmurs, voice low and breath hot. "You can, can't you?"

"Yes," Lavellan breathes.

Bull releases his face, then slides that hand down his neck and back, curling his fingers around his waist. "Good boy."

Lavellan is stilled quite effectively, slowly relaxing next to him until he is laying once again at his side, stomach twisting with anxious anticipation and frankly hot arousal. "I hate you, you're awful, and we're breaking up," he grunts, burying his face into Bull's side like a grumpy pup. 

He feels before he hears Bull's rumbling heavy chuckle. "We'll see how you feel about that in a week," he murmurs, his voice somewhere between a threat and a promise. "We'll see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am really really really really really bad at writing other characters lmao
> 
> this took 1 million years
> 
> i was going to do EVERY companion but yeah. that just wasn't happening and i wanted to move on. I Tried :(


End file.
